He patted the hand on his sleeve. 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. That Capes should love her seemed beyond the compass of her imagination. \" She sat down on a nearby bench. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing.
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