Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela’s table. 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. She shuddered, adding confidentially, ‘You wouldn’t get me in there now, mind. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea. ’ A hand seemed to grip in Melusine’s chest and she hit out.
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