The five men students were a mixed company. It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure 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. As he understood it, folks saw in two or three days all there was to see of Canton. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. The old aspect of the place was gone. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels.
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