” “You—you did what?” Anna exclaimed. ” Sir John acknowledged the introduction without cordiality. “I have a special surprise for you, Lucia. If I’m late again I’ll have to serve another detention!” She excused herself, hoping it was not too obvious she was running away. 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. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him. “I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. “She told you that?” “Yes.
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