"There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. 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. Gosse sneered. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question.
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