When she judged that she must be nearly back at the library, she began to feel somewhat dispirited. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. By your own showing you are in easy circumstances,—for it is only natural to presume that a man who owes nothing must be in a condition to pay liberally,—and you cannot therefore feel the loss of such a trifle as ten guineas. 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 cold shiver came over her. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. She had gained respect all about town with news of her fine marriage, and her reputation as a beauty was expanding. The door leaned inward. Ruth went on to explain.
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