" "Oh, that!" she said, with a deprecating gesture. 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. “A young man comes into life asking how best he may place himself,” Ramage had said; “a woman comes into life thinking instinctively how best she may give herself. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. She felt that with Capes near to her she would be content always to go on loving. The hard work will be his, until we yank this young fellow back from the brink. If I let you believe I did not love you, and they found me, your shame would be negligible. You have been her guardian angel. ” “It’s some sort of delirium,” said Capes. ” “I don’t want absolution.
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