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. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. Of this I'm certain, however, she was much too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter's wife, still less what is she now. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. But this wild scheme was speedily abandoned; and, nerved by despair, the carpenter resolved to hazard an attempt, from the execution, almost from the contemplation, of which he had hitherto shrunk. The sun never shone upon a lovelier couple than now approached the altar.
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