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. God gives us an equal chance; but we make ourselves. The man lingered. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time. The place to which you went was not the English Embassy, and the whole performance was a fraud. All I can say is, it's well meant; and I may add, I'd have made it five minutes ago, if you'd given me the opportunity.
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