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. And Anna was conscious of a few moments of exquisite emotion. “He just wants to get laid, you know. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. . Brown broke the silence.
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