Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. And think things out. 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. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. Fate! You are so frank so splendid! “I’m taking this calmly now,” he said, almost as if he apologized, “because I’m a little stunned. I want him as my friend.
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