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. She felt a new warmth in her blood, a strange sense of elation crept over her. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. “I love you. The transverse spars before mentioned were as slippery as ice; and the hollows between them were filled ankle-deep with water. Kind of knows it, too. I know faces. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. She recovered herself, however, with amazing facility.
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