"Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. 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. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. You must wait till supper's over. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. I have an engagement with a theatrical agent—I believe for the ‘Unusual’.
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