She kissed Lucia’s cheeks and patted her growing belly upon rising, to which her new husband disapproved, but Lucia loved the attention and adoration. “Do you know him?” Lucy replied, “No, I haven’t met him. And then: “Of course! Always. 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. She met him by the dugout after the game. “Hello!” said Ann Veronica, with arms akimbo and a careless, breathless manner. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. She could not help devouring him a little with her eyes across the Burger King booth, handsome shoulders visibly solid underneath his ridiculous polo shirt, his eyes all sweetness and light. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. 87 “They’re amazing. pgdp. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. " So saying, he closed the lantern.
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