I shall know what to say to him when he comes. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Luckily, Mrs. 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. “Gracious!” she exclaimed to herself. “Mr. " "Ja—ja," returned the Hollander. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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