David Courtlaw. 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. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. Ann Veronica’s desire to laugh unrestrainedly was checked by the tremendous earnestness of his expression. And how much I owe you, too, dearest Winifred, for your kindness and attention.
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