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 windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. They were sitting alone, Lucy. ” “Wherever you like!” he answered, a little absently. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. ‘But this is altogether a chance of the luckiest. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily.
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