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. "Stay!" cried Wood, "this is a most perplexing business—if you really are privy to the affair——" "We'll talk of it to-morrow, Sir," returned Jackson, cutting him short. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success. . Indeed, I've heard him say that, but for his wife, he would shelter her under his own roof. I thought that you were he.
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