“It is not an easy matter,” he said, “for me to offer you an altogether adequate explanation. "Do you hear that! We are not wholly at fault. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. 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.
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