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. There were so many things about her which he could not
understand. . She did not so much deal with Ann
Veronica’s interpolations as dispose of them with quick and use-hardened
repartee, and then she went on with a fine directness to sketch the case for her
agitation, for that remarkable rebellion of the women that was then agitating the
whole world of politics and discussion. In a moment, Roding and Lucilla joined him. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q.
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