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. You appear to be amongst those strong enough in all ordinary matters, but who seem to think it quite natural and proper to give in at once and play the weakling directly—one cares. You dear, dear girl. ‘Some ineligible that your parents would not tolerate, I suppose. I’m right again now. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend.
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