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. Diedermeyer, sweetheart? He just went in. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. There was a very substantial profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives in commodities—coloured cotton cloths, pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. Martin managed to catch her after class the next day. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure.
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