” He was silent for some moments. “Yes. ” Suppose in some complex yet conceivable way women were endowed, were no longer economically and socially dependent on men. 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. ‘And what the devil do you mean by demanding that I wait on you here? D’you think I haven’t enough to do handling that caper-witted female’s affairs, without dancing attendance on you?’ ‘Don’t be cross,’ begged Lucilla, much to Melusine’s disgust. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad.
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