“Your father is in the study and wishes to speak to you. 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. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. Get all ready for his reception.
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