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. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to be sure that no one was listening. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. " "Come, Sir!" thundered the latter, "no trifling! Perhaps," he added, opening a warrant, "you'll obey this mandate?" "A warrant!" ejaculated Kneebone, starting to his feet. ’ ‘To be sure I do,’ said Gerald swiftly. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them.
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