. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. 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. They went to the gate and stopped there, gabbed with their men, and didn’t even dismount. “We have,” he said, “to be the utmost friends. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. In his way he was critical. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little.
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