He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. I suppose that shocks one’s ideas. 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. Wild's intention, doubtless, was to use you as far as he found necessary, and then to sell you. You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. From time to time, you will also get news of my own book promotions and new or upcoming releases. I cannot answer that question.
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