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. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. ‘I do not wish to hear any more reasons so foolish, so do not trouble to think of them. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly.
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