“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. “Your father is in the study and wishes to speak to you. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. ” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. ” “You love—Anna?” she exclaimed.
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