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. It was not only Leonardo who had instilled in her this distrust of men. Gave me a purse, and told me to take both of ’em up to Harwich and put them on a packet for Holland. Lucy wore it every day from then on. The evenings were dulcet and soft. ‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met. Very likely by this time the whole truth is known.
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