Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. The subject matter was generally worthless, but the handling was well done. “It is a hateful story. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. 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. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said.
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