A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Don’t you think? Tum, tay, tum, tay. 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. ” “It still needs to be tightened up, but. He was normal now, and the coat was only a coat.
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