Ann Veronica, with a sigh at the cost of hospitality, made a hasty negotiation for an extra tea and for a fire in the groundfloor apartment, and preened herself carefully for the interview. ’ Melusine shrugged, and crossed to the plain door beside which hung a bell. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. 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. Gerald guessed she was biting her tongue on an explosive retort as she eyed him. She regarded the young man coldly. It was the size of my palm.
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