Night and day have been alike to me. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. Never had her father explained. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. 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.
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