. ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. Anna——” Again she stopped him, but this time it was not so easy. 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. “Heavens!” exclaimed Ann Veronica, with extraordinary passion. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not.
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