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. "You won't betray him. ‘Maybe not,’ Gerald conceded, ‘but I’m damned if I herald my approach with a lot of unnecessary blundering about in the dark. “You need not be alarmed,” he said. ’ ‘From you,’ the lady threw at him furiously. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. ’ ‘Sport!’ grumbled her betrothed, but he accompanied them across the ballroom all the same. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. I spent many happy days there. It was in this state that Mark McCloskey caught her. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done.
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