"It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. 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. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr.
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