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. A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. “Read this, John.
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