Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. ’ ‘How shocking,’ Gerald returned, grinning. 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. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames.
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