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. Marvel, who was now quite dissolved in tears, "I shall never survive this scene. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. What would happen when next morning she returned to Morningside Park? He couldn’t turn her out of doors. ’ If you engage me it must be upon my own merits. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations.
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