He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. 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. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. It could not be she who had done this.
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