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. “Of course,” said Miss Miniver—she went on in a regularly undulating voice —“we DO please men. ” “I think,” Lady Lescelles said, putting down her teacup, “that I must send Nigel to plead his own cause. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. “He looks as though he did, at any rate.
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