"Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. 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. In fact, Kimble was drowsily awake when she entered the little bedchamber, the state of which left a good deal to be desired, even without the added debris arising from tending a wounded man. “You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. Surely it was a dream.
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