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. "There's a young woman. But I request that a third may be given to Langley. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table. I guess. Let me see now. "You've won your wager. It feels like it.
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