” The tall young man dropped his eye-glass and smiled. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. 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. Ramage, regarding it and putting a well-booted foot up on the bottom rail. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her.
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