The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. Sheila found out. Who invented them? Nobody knows. 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. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. Why did I not realise it at once? It just shows how one should not judge by appearances.
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