There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. 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. There was no need to be afraid for me. And yet he knew that his skill was equal to that of any fashionable practitioner in Hong-Kong. " "You will remain longer than you anticipate," muttered Wild.
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