For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. You may fall into the hands of your enemy. 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. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke.
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