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. The soi-disant Valade escapes and takes my proof, which I have broken on his head. “I forbid it!” she said firmly. His business has thriven; legacies have unexpectedly dropped into his lap; and, to crown all, he has made a large fortune by a lucky speculation in South-Sea stock,—made it, too, where so many others have lost fortunes, your humble servant amongst the number—ha! ha! In a word, Sir, Mr. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort.
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