The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. 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. Which, if we are not all of us very careful indeed, will be stolen from Miss Charvill. He still watched her and questioned her. " "No doubt," rejoined Wild, with a sneer; "but don't let all the world know it.
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