"Your name is Spurlock?" "It is. ’ ‘Parbleu, but I find you excessively rude,’ she snapped, marching to meet him. 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. We were talking about the suffrage—and I rather scoffed. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. “Now here hath been dawning another blue day; I’m just a poor woman, please take it away.
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