It must have cut him. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely. For Ruth was in love, tenderly and beautifully in love; but she did not know how to express it beyond the fetch and carry phase. 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. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. She should have slapped him but she was in shock at her own thoughts of lust that arose. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football.
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