She looked them over as they sat there talking and felt very lonely.

And suddenly her eyes fell on her grandmother.

Frances Freeland was seated halfway down the long room in a sandalwood chair, somewhat insulated by a surrounding sea of polished floor.

She sat with a smile on her lips, quite still, save for the continual movement of her white hands on her black lap.

To her gray hair some lace of Chantilly was pinned with a little diamond brooch, and hung behind her delicate but rather long ears.