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 felt as if she had struck them unawares. But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision. John eased off. Heliers. Greece was a different place. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford.
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