John’s demeanor shifted. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. 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. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You’re exactly twenty-three, and you’re got up as much as a woman of forty-five.
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