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. "Of course," rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn,—"the greater the rascal, the better they like him. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. “I must confess,” he said, “the New Woman and the New Girl intrigue me profoundly.
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