Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. 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. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. Manning relinquished his cup, and looked meaningly at Ann Veronica. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her.
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