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. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. She approached Ruth with open arms; and something in the way the child came into that kindly embrace hurt the older woman to the point of tears. Mounting the door he had last opened, he placed his hands on the wall above, and quickly drew himself up.
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