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. In a moment he was beside her. "Jack!" Her son averted his gaze. Capes agreed with the utmost cordiality. Hastening along the passage he came to the sixth door. "Go to the pump, Nab," he said, when this was done, "and fill a pail with water.
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