The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. Agreeably he helped her take the shirt off. I got a rusty bolt cutter. Scarcely any one entered Mr. Stanley. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. 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. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey.
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