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You denied it, remembering that I had called myself Anna. 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. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. ’ Melusine swung round and stared at him, while Gerald silently cursed. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor.

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