It was a long, low-roofed apartment, with dark panelling along the walls and rafters across the ceiling. The furniture was sparse, but bore signs of opulence: there were several huge leather armchairs and a couple of settees. Apart from these there was nothing in the room save a small table littered with music in manuscript, and a full-size grand piano. At first Catherine thought the room was unoccupied, but two winding coils of smoke rising upwards from two of the armchairs--the backs of which were towards her--seemed to proclaim the presence of men. “Miss Weston,” announced the maid, and closed the door behind her. One of the coils of smoke gyrated from the perpendicular. This was the preliminary to a slow creaking of one of the armchairs. A figure rose from the depths, and its back view was the first that Catherine saw of it. It was tall, attired in a light tweed jacket, grey flannel trousers, and carpet slippers of a self-congratulatory hue. Altogether, it was most disreputable for a Sabbath afternoon. It was difficult to recognize in this the spruce, well-groomed man of the world who had pushed his way into the Forest Hotel on the previous night. Yet Catherine did recognize him, and was rather astonished at her own perception in so doing. He faced her with the graceless langour of one who has just got out of bed at an early hour. Yet in his extreme ungainliness perhaps there was a certain charm. And as for his face--Catherine decided that it was not only lacking in positive good looks, but was also well endowed with extremely negative characteristics. To begin with, the lie of his features was not symmetrical. His hair was black and wiry, lustreless and devoid of interest. The whole plan and elevation of his face was so unconventional that he would probably have passed for being intellectual.... He bowed to her slightly. There was no doubt of his ability to bow. Whether he were ungainly or not, his bowing was so elegant as to savour of the professional. It was consciously a performance of exquisite artistry, as if he were thinking: “I know I’m ugly, but I’ve mastered the art of bowing, anyway. Put me in evening clothes, and I’ll pass for an ambassador or a head-waiter.” He did not offer his hand. “Ah,” he said, “M’sieur Razounov will be ready in a moment. Please take a seat.” Catherine sat down in one of the easy chairs. From this position she could see that another chair contained the recumbent form of Emil Razounov. He was reading a Sunday paper and taking occasional puffs at a large cigar. Catherine had heard much gossip about Razounov’s eccentricities, yet compared with his companion he seemed to her to be disappointingly ordinary. For several moments the two men sat in silence, while Catherine made ruthless mental criticisms. She was piqued at the lack of enthusiasm accorded her. Suddenly Emil Razounov spoke. The voice came from the depths of the chair like a female voice out of a gramophone horn. It was almost uncanny.