Our ideal had fallen. 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. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. But are we any more free?” “Well?” “I mean we’ve long strings to tether us, but we are bound all the same. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in the conflict.
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