“I forbid it!” she said firmly. "Hush!—come hither, and I'll tell you. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “Everybody seems to have it now. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. He did not move. 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. “Cheveney!” she repeated. Wood?" "With pleasure," replied the woollen-draper. A slight rain fell at the time; and a few leaves, caught by the eddies, whirled around. He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her.
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