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 was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. But he sobered instantly as he recollected that O'Higgins had found Spurlock once. He told her something about music, the great world outside. ’ ‘Do you indeed?’ rejoined the old lady, twinkling at him, and urging him towards the door. “I think I ought to have one.
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