"What did you ring for, Sir?" she asked, eyeing the group with astonishment. 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. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. Tom swore he hadn't set eyes on him since the trial. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily.
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