“What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. “It was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over. Mr. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. 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. Then pain entered their depths. I said to myself at once, ‘Either this is a coincidence or the caper sauce. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself.
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