Sheppard. 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 am the cause of his ill-usage. This I have sworn to do—this I will do. No, I thank you. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. You should have confided in me, and fallen in with my plan at the beginning.
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