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. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. ‘Or flew in by balloon, perhaps. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it.
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