Oh, it was very bad. 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. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. I thought that Hill was dead, but I was frightened, and I wanted to get away from Paris. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. " "A young fellow who thinks he's in love, when he has only been reading too much.
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