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As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. 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. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. Her state of mind would have seemed altogether discreditable to her grandmother. I may want you.
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