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. Voilà tout. John moved closer to her, getting up from his roost by one bench, he joined her at the bench where she sat. Hobson was not 147 amused by the situation, which handled wrongly, could lose him his job.
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