The semi-circular arrangement of the chairs made those at the ends of the row much closer to the stage than those in the centre. On one of these end chairs sat Professor Pendragon, his crutches resting beside him on the floor, and next to him sat Ruth. Then came some of the dinner guests, the other house guests, including Gloria and Prince Aglipogue, being at the farther end of the row; the room was dimly lighted and the stage itself had only one light, a ghostly green lamp, seemingly suspended in the middle of the black curtain, in the shape of a waning moon. Instinctively voices were hushed and people talked to each other in whispers. Only Ruth and Professor Pendragon did not speak. She could not know of what he was thinking, but she knew that in herself thought was suspended. She sat watching her hand clasping the tiny revolver concealed in her girdle. John Peyton-Russell then announced that Miss Gilchrist (if she had a Christian name no one ever heard it) had consented to recite some of her own poems. The relaxation of the company, almost visible, was half disappointment, half relief. The stage set had led them to expect something unusual, and they were only going to be bored. Miss Gilchrist seated herself at the piano, on which she accompanied herself. Ruth did not know if her words were as bad as her music, for she did not understand them, and from certain whispered comments she knew that no one else did, with the possible exception of Miss Gilchrist herself. Some one else—a pretty, blond young thing with a “parlour voice,” sang an old English Christmas carol that sounded like sacrilege. Then Prince Aglipogue sang. Ruth never hated him so much as when he sang because then as at no other time he created the illusion of an understanding soul. His painting was obvious trickery; his violin playing of a quality that did not discredit the composer, for he had been trained to a parrot-like perfection; but when he sang he created the illusion of greatness—Purcell, Brahms, Richard Strauss—it did not matter whose music he sang; one felt that he understood, and it angered Ruth that when she closed her eyes she forgot the singer and could understand how Gloria might marry and even love the possessor of this voice.