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. That boy—blind as a bat! Why, he hadn't seen the Woman until to-night! From the first chord of the Grieg concerto to the finale of the Chopin ballade, Ruth had sat tensely on the edge of her chair. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. I am a thing to be used. It was decrepit and too large. She did her best to do this. "I rather fancy, as you Britishers say, that you know the nature of my visit?" "I'm an American. At least until we graduate. How dreary it all looks.
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