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 the story of a man, so to speak, who had left his vitals in his native land and wandered strange paths emptily. ‘You should be. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. His salary was a few paltry hundreds a year.
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