Like a petulant child he snapped. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. "But if it is your mother, send her about her business. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. . I just thought perhaps a different boy was in store for you. 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.
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