Wild has made up his mind, and, when that's the case, all the persuasion on earth won't turn him. 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. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning.
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