He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. I must go perhaps in all the rooms. It did not seem quite fair. If this idiotic marriage is binding then I will be her friend. 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. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. "You've won your wager.
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