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. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. . The operation was effected with so much rapidity and so little noise, that even if any one had been on the alert, he could scarcely have detected it. You appear to be amongst those strong enough in all ordinary matters, but who seem to think it quite natural and proper to give in at once and play the weakling directly—one cares.
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