CHAPTER IX. 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. Stanley admired and detested him in almost equal measure. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. Suppose he stopped all her allowance, made it imperative that she should either stay ineffectually resentful at home or earn a living for herself at once. His age was not far from fifty. “It’s as broad as life,” said Mr.
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