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 was only yesterday I had your letter, and you never mentioned coming over. 8 or 1. ” “Some little tiff?” “No; but I don’t think I shall see them. At least I can give you a glimmer. To-night all London believes that he was your husband.
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