” The dinner came to an end at last, and the whiskered waiter presented his bill and evacuated the apartment and closed the door behind him with an almost ostentatious discretion. Wood. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. 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. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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