It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. She calmed herself, breathing deeply. 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.
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