Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. " "I can't! I can't—not now!" "Bat!—can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you. "Now, let's see who'll dare to take him down," she cried. She knew very well that a new thing was stirring in her. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears.
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