"Keep off, you accursed jade!" roared Jonathan, "—off, I say, or—" And he struck her a violent blow with his clenched hand. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. Mischief bubbled up in her. 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. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. Forgive me if a certain warmth creeps into my words! The Park is green and gray to-day, but I am glowing pink and gold. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen.
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