My only love is for my poor lost son. 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. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. ‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth. He hoped he would get to see the two suitors face off over Lucy. And if I cared to have him come every day, why shouldn’t he? I find him very amusing and very useful as well.
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