There was a crush at Mrs. Evershed’s beautiful house in Mark Place, and she now stood at the head of the staircase receiving her guests. Her face wore a smile, and conventional words of welcome rose to her lips. She was a handsome woman of about forty, and there were few people, even in Mayfair, who entertained more brilliantly. To look at her, her house, her servants, her guests, no one would suppose that she had a care in the world, and yet just behind that smiling face grim care dwelt.…
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