‘Go on up to the boy, my dear. Mother had met with him two years before to begin the process of finding a match. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. 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. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette.
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