Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. We have to get them to let us in for the profits of their business, and in return we ask them to—dinner. “Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility.
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