He saw now that it was merely a boy. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. 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. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. Odd, but he had never thought of the beach until this girl (who looked as if she had stepped out of the family album) referred to it with a familiarity which was as astonishing as it was profoundly sad.
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