“I supposed that he took off his hat to you. I didn't understand then, but I do now. “I will not ask you to explain further. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated. 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. Might we ask you if you have ever seen him, if you knew him at all before this evening?” She stood up suddenly, and turning her back to them, looked steadily out of the window. We all have to kow-tow to that.
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