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. “I’ll buy a new one. Don’t think I can’t sympathize and understand. "That'll teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head for the future," observed Thames, as he helped Jack to his feet. “I am afraid—I really think that one of us ought to go with you,” he said. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other.
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