It was years before your time. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. It isn’t. But after all, Mrs. 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. Had he but known it, his outburst had done him no harm in the major’s eyes.
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