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. He went on with intense urgency. ’ She turned, her eyes narrowed. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Then a light seemed to break in upon him. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. I rather want them. "But if you do not find this aunt, what will you do? What can you do to protect yourself against hunger?" "I'll find something.
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