Now, Sir, will you please to follow me?" Mr. Her mouth was once more covered as they left the second floor guest saloon and headed for the back stairs. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed. I have done from the first moment I saw you. 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. His analytical bent saved him many times, though he was not sensitive to this. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night.
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