And you shall have a share of the gold for yourself. 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. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. To fight inertia on the one hand and to study this queer girl on the other. Only you won’t let me exist!” Mr.
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