"The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. I will tell you this much, because you have been kind. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. "I'm your dupe no longer. ‘Went to the dogs, did Jarvis, after Mary died. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. 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.
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