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 common rage flushed their faces. ’ ‘Your plan, then. She gave her a wink when John had turned to ask Mark if Lucy could ride home with them. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture.
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