“I do not know what you mean,” he said, “but if you are referring to any little coolness since our marriage let us never speak of it again. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. 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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