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. ‘Well, I thought as how someone in the house in Paddington might see me hanging about outside like. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. ‘I know just what he was doing. “So long as I am your father, so long as your life is entrusted to my care, I feel bound by every obligation to use my authority to check this odd disposition of yours toward extravagant enterprises. Decidedly this was imbecile.
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