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. “It’s jolly of you to come,” said Ramage. ’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Miss Froxfield frostily. " "You're a philosopher, too. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended.
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