“There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. Still, it was rather terrible to suspect that one had fallen from grace, but nevertheless the thing was possible. I’ve paid for you and helped you, and I’m going to conquer you somehow—if I have to break you to do 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. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes.
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