The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. 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. “Then you—you will?” A long pause. . “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. Then she reverted to the trousers. To my loving parents and brothers, and my Aunts, Gail and Barb.
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