laws alone swamp our small staff. Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. Chapter IV THE TEMPERAMENT OF AN ARTIST “You may sit there and smoke, and look out upon your wonderful Paris,” Anna said lightly. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. 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. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes.
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