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. Ann Veronica had come down thinking of nothing in the world but her inflexible resolution to go to the dance in the teeth of all opposition. Even the horns were easing into the concept and the woodwinds in the second movement were particularly well-orchestrated. Down on me luck, I was, and they took me in. Sir John heard gossip about us—about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias ‘Alcide’ a dancer at the cafés chantants, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few—which were true. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along.
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