He had made it even easier by walking up the steps instead of taking the elevator. ” “But it may matter very much indeed,” Anna declared. 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. While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a man was admitted into the passage. She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home.
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