"I must see him to-night. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. You cannot arrest yourself. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. The Becks as a 187 family didn’t talk or ruminate over Mike’s or Lucy’s past much. “We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. 195 < 24 > A CITY IN GREECE, 589 B. 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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