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. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. ‘You have come to me in place of Gérard? But how is it you will help me?’ ‘That’s all right and tight. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. Jack! Mon dieu, but he was unarmed.
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