He advanced a step towards her. 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. To-morrow, when she returned to Hong-Kong, she would purchase a simple but modern dress. He eyed the young couple with the tragic history behind them, and could only suppose that familiarity had dulled their senses. He uttered a short laugh. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. "I expect a very extraordinary person to supper, Rachel," he remarked. The pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other barricades, were laid.
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