“They didn’t seem to mind meeting at all,” Terry had said to her the day before, but when Angela had spoken of Professor Pendragon’s dangerous condition and his plan of returning to the city, Ruth had caught his glance and knew that he understood at least in part—at least as much as any one else could understand. She did not intend to tell him anything about her own conversation with Pendragon or the scene between him and Gloria which she had witnessed. She knew that she had been there, not so much as a confidante, as an artificial barrier between two people who otherwise could not have borne the pain of meeting. The experience had made her feel very old, and now the idea of entertaining children seemed almost preposterous. The door was opened and the little guests came trooping into the big hall, but something seemed to have happened when they clambered out of the sleigh. They had been laughing after the most approved manner of childhood. Ruth could swear to that. She had seen their faces and some of the shrill shouts had penetrated into the house. Now they stood, with wide, curious eyes and solemn demeanour, the little ones were huddling close behind the older ones and all looking like shy, frightened wood things. They followed Mr. Peyton-Russell into the room of the Christmas tree; they looked, but where were the cries of delight with which Ruth had expected them to hail this wonder? Beyond shy “yes” and “no” to questions they said nothing. They stood like little, wooden images while the maids separated them from vast quantities of little coats, sweaters, knitted caps, hoods, mufflers, and overshoes. Ruth hoped that they would breathe sighs of relief and begin to look happy after that, but they didn’t. They stood quite solemnly where they were and Angela and her husband, who were to return later to distribute the gifts, fled, leaving them to be “amused.” The electric candles on the tree had been lighted, though it was a bright day, and some of the bolder children drew near to it, but still they did not talk. It seemed that entrance into the house had made them strangers to each other as well as to their hosts, and they looked so dull Ruth wondered, remembering the hordes of dark-faced children she had seen playing in Washington Square, if country children were duller than city children. “Let me start them,” said Miss Gilchrist, talking quite audibly as if the children could not hear. “I have a great way with children.” She threw an ogreish smile at them as she spoke and one little girl instinctively drew near to Terry as if for protection. “Now, children, what shall we play?” she asked in what was doubtless intended to be an engaging tone of voice. For a long time no one spoke; then a little girl—the tallest little girl there—whispered just audibly: “Kissing games.” Terry grinned delightedly, but Miss Gilchrist flushed a dark purple.