" And, with this, he coolly re-adjusted his peruke. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. Never did I need a rescue so much. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. “I mean to go to that dance! I meant to reason with you, but you won’t reason. . ‘It does not seem to me that you can be an emissary for that pig. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. 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. ’ ‘Only in hot blood, eh?’ grinned Gerald. The carte de jour was before Monsieur.
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