If I do not look after her, she has no one. 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. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. "So endeth the first lesson," he said.
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