“His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. 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. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she said.
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