” “Perhaps not,” she answered. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. I am sure I never enjoyed so much popularity in my life. Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. 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.
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