‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. “What did you say?” “Well, I considered myself justified in denying it,” Anna answered drily. This service rendered, without waiting for any farther order, she withdrew. As for the doctor, he found a pleasure in this service that would have puzzled him had he paused to analyse it. He did not speak for a moment. 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. It never is. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis.
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