The company ranged themselves four on each side.

Miss Burnaby sat on one side of the fireplace, her brother on the other. 
Next to the old lady was Sir Lyon; then Helen Brabazon; last their host.

On the opposite side, next to Mr. Burnaby, sat the fat-visaged James Tapster; by him was Blanche Farrow, looking on the proceedings with a certain cynical amusement and interest, and next to Blanche, and nearest to where Bubbles had now established herself on one of those low chairs which in England is called a nursery chair, and in France a prie-dieu, was young Donnington.  He, alone of the people there, looked uncomfortable and disapproving.

After they had all been seated, waiting they hardly knew for what, for a few moments, Bubbles leapt from her low chair and blew out all the candles, a somewhat lengthy task, and one which plunged the room into almost darkness.  But she threw a big log of wood on the fire, and the flames shot up, filling the room with shafts of rosy, fitful light.

There was a pause.  Varick said something in a rather cheerful, matter-of-fact voice to Miss Brabazon, and Bubbles turned round sharply:  “I’m afraid we ought to have complete silence—­even silence of thought,” she said solemnly.

Blanche Farrow looked at the girl.  What queer jargon was this?  In the wavering light thrown by the fire Bubbles’ face looked tense and rather strained.

Was it possible, Blanche asked herself with a touch of uneasiness, that the child was taking this seriously—­that she believed in it at all?  Her father thought so, but then Hugh Dunster was such an old fool!

The moments ran by.  One or two of the chairs creaked.  James Tapster yawned, and he put up his hand rather unwillingly to hide his yawn.  He thought all this sort of thing very stupid, and so absolutely unnecessary.  He had enjoyed listening to Miss Bubbles’ cheerful, inconsequent chatter.  It irritated him that she should have been dragged away from him—­for so he put it to himself—­by that unpleasant, supercilious woman, Blanche Farrow.  It was a pity that a nice girl like Miss Bubbles had such an aunt.  Only the other day he had heard a queer story about Miss Farrow.  The story ran that she had once been caught in a gambling raid, and her name kept out of the papers by the influence of a man in the Home Office who had been in love with her at the time.

And then he looked up, startled for once—­for strange, untoward sounds were issuing from the lips of Bubbles Dunster.  The girl was leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, crouched upon the low chair, her slight, sinuous little figure bathed in red light.  She was groaning, rocking herself backwards and forwards convulsively.  To most of those present it was a strange, painful exhibition—­painful, yet certainly thrilling!