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. He drew a little sigh of relief. "Oh!—to see you thus!" cried Thames, in an agony of affliction. ” “You would marry a divorcée?” she asked. " "It shall be, Sir," replied Ireton, bowing.
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