The cocktails came and though Ruth had never seen Gloria drink anything stronger than coffee before four o’clock in the afternoon, she took this one in the way that Ruth had sometimes seen men drink, almost pouring it down. They all moved off to the breakfast table then, Gloria with John Peyton-Russell, Angela beside Prince Aglipogue, and Terry with Miss Gilchrist. Ruth waited while Professor Pendragon picked up his crutches. Evidently he could get about very well by himself. “I want to see you after breakfast—as soon as possible,” she whispered to him. “The enclosed veranda at five o’clock,” he whispered back. She wanted to ask him what and where the enclosed veranda was, but there was no chance. Every one was talking at once, it seemed; that is, every one except Professor Pendragon and herself. She tried to catch Terry’s eyes, but when she did, he only lifted one eyebrow as who should say: “You see, your anxiety was needless; they are sophisticated New Yorkers and didn’t mind a bit.” But they did mind; she knew that. If they had recognized each other—that would have been the sophisticated thing to do. Instead they had taken the romantic course and met as strangers, though unlike strangers they did not talk to each other. All around her she could hear snatches of conversation. Terry seemed to have quite won the formidable Miss Gilchrist. “Yes; I sing,” she could hear her saying; “but I prefer poetry to any of the arts.” “Really?” said Terry politely. “Yes; I say that poetry is my chief métier. I have a poem this month in _Zaneslie’s_.” “I must read it,” murmured Terry. “You should hear me recite to really appreciate; don’t you think that one is always the best interpreter of one’s own work?” Terry nodded understandingly, and then in a voice that amused Ruth even while she thought it rather cruel of him to laugh at the serious Miss Gilchrist: “Do you write rhymed poetry or do you prefer free verse?” he asked. Miss Gilchrist deserted her grape fruit and gave him her undivided attention. “You know, Mr. Riordan, for years I have written rhymed poetry, but recently, quite recently, I have felt a definite urge toward the free medium. I have not relinquished the rhyme, but I am expressing myself in both forms. The free medium—” Her voice went on, and on, but Ruth could not hear her now because Gloria’s voice, clear and high like the sleigh bells, rose above everything else for the moment. “No; I can’t work in Terry’s play; I’ve decided never to go back to the stage. I want to travel—South America, perhaps.” “But you’re going there on a concert tour, aren’t you, Prince?” said Angela. “Perhaps—if you have a secret from me, Gloria, I don’t know what I shall do to you.” For a moment Ruth’s eyes met those of Professor Pendragon. She saw a strange light flash into them, like a sword half withdrawn from its sheath and then replaced, as he dropped his eyes. CHAPTER XIV