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. “Don’t ask me to tell you all that women can do, all that women can be. Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully increased. We were only—les autres. I have it on my conscience that I offended you—” “Offended me when?” “I’ve been haunted by the memory of you. CHAPTER III.
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