She pulled her chair with a mild creak and marched towards the stair. Now, will you do me the honour of lunching with me, Miss Pellissier?” Anna hesitated. Her mouth dry, she made her feet walk on, not daring to utter a word. 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. “How do you feel?” she asked. Lost me place, that’s all. Then Ann Veronica passed on toward the tea in the garden, which was dotted with the elite of Morningside Park society, and there she was pounced upon by Lady Palsworthy and given tea and led about.
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