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. But all these hours, trying to teach the child wariness toward life, and the moment his back was turned, this! He was, perhaps, still dazed by the inner revelation—his own interest in Ruth. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. Half a day had turned the corner of the hours; and Ah Cum admitted that this girl puzzled him. He was tall and straight, and his expression was good. “They are coming past our table. “These are the playgrounds of life.
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