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. Quarter-staves, bludgeons, brown-bills, lanterns, swords, and sconces were alike shivered; and, to judge from the sullied state of their habiliments, the claret must have been tapped pretty freely. Bird,—who was rushing up stairs, alarmed by Mr. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. “Quite on my own,” she said. If he stayed in the basement apartment as was his usual habit, she would have no problem. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement.
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