The Goopes were the oddest little couple conceivable, following a fruitarian career upon an upper floor in Theobald’s Road. 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. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. The shot had taken effect upon the waterman who rowed the chase. ‘You do not understand, Gérard.
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