We can take our things up with us and stay at the Continental or the Ritz. 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. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. ‘Bring her to me and we shall see. But I’m not a slut either, if that’s what you think. Too much, perhaps. She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect.
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