” “Why not? Your spirits at least should be good. 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. ‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. "Stir a foot, at your peril. Shari draped herself lazily upon her unmade bed.
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