She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. I ought never to have thought of it. “Anna,” he pleaded, “be merciful. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically.
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