” Annabel saw Ennison first, and noticing his single companion calmly ignored him. 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 would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. She knew the truth of it all right. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. “I am sick of it. ‘I have not asked for this trouble from anyone.
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