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. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. She snatched about in her mind. It is putting all my dreams out of joint. Brendon was silent. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. “Kick aht at ‘em!” though, indeed, she went now with Christian meekness, resenting only the thrusting policemen’s hands. Surely it was a dream.
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