I need scarcely ask whether you've executed your appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand. No; the future was not so dark; there was a bit of dawn visible. 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. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying.
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