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. He loaded the launch with a thousand pounds—all she could carry—and started home immediately after sundown; but even then he lost from a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds before he had the stuff cached in McClintock's bamboo-covered sawdust pit. "It's runnin' a great risk. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. Then she burst into a peal of laughter. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. I had done the most compromising things, and behaved in the most ridiculous way.
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