“I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. Annabel, come to the door with me,” she added a little abruptly. He could imagine it even if he could not feel it. He smiled tenderly. “Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?” with a low bow. 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. “You look great, Lucy. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him.
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