“I gave your name. 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. But—if you are a friend of Mr. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. For a time Spurlock did not move. A curious silence ensued. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “Hello?” She asked as she cradled the phone by her ear. And then I'll pay off old scores.
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