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. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed.
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