And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night. Don't lay it all to the boy. I shall know what to say to him when he comes. Don't unman him. . . 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. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. And now YOU’RE on the war-path.
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