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. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. It seemed to her that her father was in some inexplicable way meaner-looking than she had supposed, and yet also, as unaccountably, appealing. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. Then she saw him.
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