In another instant, the collision took place. At noon the doctor himself arrived. Since Mary predeceased Jarvis, Nicholas could scarcely argue himself to be my brother’s next of kin. “I will be off,” she declared. 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. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart.
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