“You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. 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. A woman such as I am might help take care of Mr. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. Spurling, and her now accepted suitor, resumed their seats.
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