She had never seen so much food in her life as she saw at her own wedding feast. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. 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. He did not even care for his own inheritance at this place in Wodeham Water. ” Anna laughed, and went back to her easy chair. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. She listened, her suspicions confirmed.
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