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. And to think that man got it all out of the poorest little love-story for a respectable titled lady! Have you read of it?” “Never. He had made himself master of the layout of the house, that was plain. You will agree with me when you have heard what I have to say. I just want him, and no one else will do.
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