She tried hard to understand the queer things they read or recited, but it seemed to her a continuous repetition of sound without sense.

She was willing to admit her own stupidity, and noting the rapt expressions on the faces round her, she concluded the lack was in herself.

The music, too, though strange and eccentric, didn't seem to her as worth while as it had done before, though it was decidedly similar.

Blaney read some of his poems, to a zithern accompaniment, but they weren't very impressive, and not nearly so poetic as the lines he had written for her.

She wondered if she had really inspired him to greater heights of song than he could attain without her influence.
He had assured her of this, and she began to think it might be so.
The supper followed the program.