Then she called a hansom and drove home. Yes—as he would have liked. So they fenced with smiles. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. "Jump!" cried Ben, in a voice of thunder. " "Would you like to have me read to you?" He did not answer. 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. 102 When he took her out, he was proud of her. " "He couldn't help it, Ruth.
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