" "You'd better," replied Quilt. 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. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. "Nor any one else, I suspect," answered Ireton, winking significantly. Mr. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. ’ ‘Tchah!’ He glared at her. She said she hoped she had not distressed him by the course she had felt obliged to take, and he told her not to be a fool.
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