Anne looked up into the Marchese’s face with a quizzical smile. Beneath the staccato uproar of piano and laughter his voice flowed liquid and unbroken. Interesting and even thrilling as were his recent adventures, somehow his account lacked the usual fire. It was difficult to focus her attention. The fervid charm of their intercourse seemed to have vanished. Anne’s smile stiffened upon her lips. Her eyes wandered rather vaguely about the crowded room.

It was the usual olla podrida of mixed professions and nationalities that had gathered in her drawing room for the last four or five years. One or two genuine artists and musicians, a writer of indubitable distinction, an actress of greater renown than ability, several clever pretenders, and the man at her side, whose fame as an archÆologist, stood undisputed, and whose dignity and charm were a byword on two continents. A man whose friendship had gratified her for years and whose attentions had more than satisfied a fastidious and pampered vanity.

But somehow, he failed to thrill her to-night. His virile and rather grave personality was overshadowed by one weaker, yet more compelling. Between her and the dark, high-bred face, intruded a pale, sensitive silhouette; the memory of burning, youthful words. Not accustomed to float upon the tide of emotions, Anne was conscious of a bewildered self-contempt.

With a determined effort she shepherded her truant thoughts and turned to the Marchese just as the boy at the piano had banged the last smashing cord of a Sowerby Medley.

“Rather relentless, wasn’t it?” she laughed above the raucous applause.

“Blasphemy, pure and simple,” shuddered the Marchese. “Like a visit to the dentist. The buzzer, you know?” He rolled his r’s and waved a graphic hand. “It sets my teeth on edge completely. How can you bear it, carissima?”

She laughed again.

“It’s rather amusing, don’t you think? Poor Vittorio, are you so old-fashioned as to enjoy a perpetual Celeste AÏda?”

“Yes, thank God,” he exclaimed fervently. “Do you suppose Orpheus would ever have rescued his Eurydice by playing jazz? No, no, the old guardian beasts were too artistic for that!”

She waved her fan gaily.

“But nowadays we don’t even believe in Hades!”

“Ah, but it is always Paradise when with you, Cara Anna,” he murmured somewhat bromidically.

She looked up into his face.

“You are always so good, Vittorio! I—I’m afraid I don’t deserve it.” She paled a little beneath the earnest gaze of the red-brown eyes.

He laughed indulgently beneath his breath.

“How is that, don’t deserve it? But what has entered into you, dear lady, since your return from the mountain? Have you met a god that you are so uncharacteristically humble?”

Failing to meet her eyes, his own became suddenly troubled. Had Anne perhaps indeed received the coup de foudre which he had been dreading all these years?

“Do fallen gods dwell upon the mountain-tops?” There was a trace of uncertainty in Anne’s smile. Her eyes grew misty as the pale obsessive silhouette rose once more between them. “And if I had?” she challenged.

His lids veiled sudden apprehension.

“Met a fallen god?” he inquired lightly.

She nodded, meeting his searching gaze with an innocent stare.

“Then, unconquered lady, beware!” he shook a solemn finger, not at all reassured by the innocent stare. Experience had taught him that even the best of women lie when occasion demands it. “The fallen god is the most dangerous of all. His halo may be crooked, but it dazzles. His poor, stumbling feet of clay inspire that pity which poets claim is akin to love.”

He finished with a mock heroic flourish. They both laughed aloud.

“Don’t be niggards. Share the joke,” came a husky drawl from behind them, as the long, but prodigious, Ellen Barnes sank into the nearest chair. An actress of the foremost rank, of greater personal than artistic appeal, her ample shoulders had assumed the regal mantle of Broadway. Her reign undisputed, her manner was more royal than the queen’s.

The Marchese smiled upon the intruder suavely. He thought her acting execrable, and knew she would be hissed off any worth-while French or Italian stage, but her regular, well-nourished beauty was reposeful, her languid air tickled his humor.

“The Marchese was discussing feet,” said Anne slyly, rather relieved at the interruption.

The other woman stared incredulously.

“Feet? Metrical or unpoetic like mine?” she threw out a large, but shapely foot, and regarded it with satisfaction.

“Ellen, your vanity is incorrigible!” laughed Anne lightly as she rose. “But if you promise to be a good girl and not corrupt the Marchese I’ll trust you alone with him for a while. They are waving to me from the piano.”

The Marchese surveyed her retreat with a whimsical smile.

“I am very much frightened,” he said, turning towards the delighted Ellen, who sprawled largely nonchalant upon her cushions. “Was it not Hedda Gabler to-night?”

“Oh yes, a revival,” exclaimed Ellen eagerly. “Do you think the part suits me?”

The Marchese’s reply was more than satisfactory. But his eyes followed the figure of the other woman.

Her apple green dress, clinging closely about her, Anne was crossing the room. They will want me to dance, I suppose, she thought, looking about her with dissatisfaction. She felt suddenly un-at-home, almost ill at ease. The familiar surroundings still appealed with the claim of long association. The tempera walls still soothed, the carved Florentine furniture had lost no dignity, but somehow tonight the carefully chosen austerity rang false. Or was it merely that she was bored? Yes, bored almost to tears by the deafening prattle of the puppets she had gathered together? Yes, that was it. Why had she never sensed their incongruity so strongly before?

She approached the multi-colored group at the piano and looked down into the face of the boy seated at the keyboard. Brilliant, degenerate, his playing just escaped the professional. As he returned her gaze, something wistful and defiant within the tired eyes suddenly struck at Anne’s heart. Something that seemed to cry: “there is a devil within me, but I did not put him there. Besides, who cares?”

Anne leaned over him. Her emerald earrings tinkled gaily in his face. A faint perfume swept his faÇile senses.

“How goes it, Gerald?” she said quietly.

“Oh, life’s a dirge, as usual.” A smile painted upon the wistfulness, he flung back his head and with distended nostrils seemed to inhale her into his consciousness. Then springing up, he held out his arms.

“Let us drown sorrow in a dance,” he begged. Pushing a rather naked and wild-eyed young woman into his seat he commanded her to play. “A waltz, anything so long as it is immediate!”

With a toss of the bobbed-head and a mechanical grab at a recalcitrant shoulder-strap, the girl broke into a grotesque cancan.

Rather wearily, Anne permitted herself to be swept into Gerald’s arms. Joined by six or seven other couples they wheeled around the room, like a flock of gaily-feathered pigeons.

Anne felt herself studied by the weary young eyes.

“What is the matter?” she said a little peevishly. “Have you discovered a wrinkle?”

The boy pressed her to him with spasmodic strength. She marvelled at the force of the doll-like creature, and at herself for ever having been, even momentarily, swayed by his puerile passion.

“Don’t be foolish, Gerald,” she added crossly, as he continued to crush her against him. The music stopped with a staccato crash. They circled to a finish near the alcove where Ellen Barnes and the Marchese were bolstering a dwindling conversation by forced inanities.

Anne accepted the Marchese’s chair with gratitude. Vittorio was a real man and a relief after the hectic Gerald. She looked up at the latter with a rather tired smile.

“Do get yourself a drink, Gerald, you look so hot. Thompson is serving them in the library, I believe. You may bring me one, too, if you like,” she added to mitigate the rather abrupt dismissal. Personally, she loathed cocktails.

Ellen was looking almost animated.

“The Marchese has been showing me a chain he dug up somewhere in Persia,” she drawled between puffs of a scented cigarette. “He tells me I may wear it in my next play, which is taken from the Arabian nights or the Bible, I never can remember exactly which. At any rate, it’s antique and oriental!”

She held the chain up for Anne’s approval. It was of hammered gold, studded at intervals with monstrous uncut turquoise. A flush rising in her pale face, Anne fingered it lovingly.

“How unbelievably beautiful,” she murmured, almost reproachfully. What could have come over Vittorio? He did not usually juggle his treasures promiscuously. Could he have become infatuated with Ellen? “I’m sure it must have a story. Do tell it to us, Vittorio.”

He met her uncertain smile with concealed amusement. How could he tell her how openly the woman had angled for the bauble?

“It’s rather a long story, I’m afraid,” he commenced with his usual amiability. “However, if you command——-”

But at this moment Gerald appeared with a small tray of cocktails and as they helped themselves the doorbell pealed shrilly.

A glass raised halfway to her lips, Anne paused almost imperceptibly, while the butler strode solemnly down the hall, and opening the street door, indulged in a prolonged but discreet parley.

Gerald noted Anne’s abstraction with malicious curiosity.

“Is any of the gang missing?” he said. “Shall I go and see who it is, Anne?”

But Anne had risen. With a disconcerting little smile she swept by him; as he started to follow she looked back over her shoulder and laughed softly.

“No, you can’t come with me, Gerald. You mustn’t be so curious! Perhaps I have a mystery in my life, who knows? At any rate, I promise to call for help if it’s a burglar!”

As she swept out of the arched doorway, the boy looked after her in chagrined anger.

Heart knocking against her side, she emerged into the high narrow hall. Thompson was at the door, and as she had surmised, the tall stranger with whom he was discreetly parleying was Alexis.

Muffled in a great coat, a soft hat pulled over his eyes, he presented the appearance of a conspirator in the movies, and Anne did not wonder that Thompson had hesitated to permit him to enter. Suppressing a hysterical desire to laugh, she interposed herself between the two men.

“It’s quite all right, Thompson,” she said in a low voice, “you may go.”

As the surprised man disappeared down the corridor, she held out her hands to Alexis. He seized and covered them with kisses.

“Be careful.” A pulse hammering faintly in her throat, she drew him swiftly into the house. “The house is full of people and someone may come out here at any moment!”

He cast a hunted look about him. A sudden shriek of laughter rose shrilly above the rest.

“Isn’t there any place where we can be undisturbed?” His lowering gaze rested upon her angrily. But it was the first time he had seen her in evening dress and as her beauty penetrated through his irritation, his expression melted suddenly.

“You are like an alabaster lamp!” he exclaimed. “Your skin is luminous, as if a light were glowing from within. I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen!”

She gave a husky little laugh and catching hold of his hand, pulled him after her up the stairs.

“We will go to my sitting-room, which Thompson insists upon calling the ‘budwar,’ and Regina the salotino,” she whispered gaily.

She led the way up the curved, stone, stairway. He followed submissively, an absent eye upon the tapestries that covered the stone walls. They entered the sitting-room at the top of the stairs and Anne closed the door firmly.

“Enfin seuls!” she exclaimed sinking with a comic little air into a chair before the fire. Throwing aside his hat and coat, Alexis glowered somberly down upon her.

“It is a week since we parted, and I’ve been starving for the sight of you,” he cried with a catch in his voice. “Why didn’t you let me know that you had returned?”

His agitated face reproached her. She laughed rather nervously.

“I only arrived yesterday afternoon, impatient one. Besides, I had received your telegram and knew that everything was all right. I was going to call you up to-morrow morning. But now I shan’t have to, shall I?” She drew herself up briskly. “Come, don’t stand there glowering at me. Sit down, tell me your news.”

Wounded at her sudden change of tone, Alexis sank upon a stool at her feet. Putting his arms about his knees, he stared gloomily into the flames. “What do you want to know?” he inquired sullenly.

Anne repressed an impatient sigh.

“Tell me about Claire,” she said quietly. “Will she be able to leave the hospital soon?”

“She seems to be perfectly all right, now, and expects to return home in a few days,” he replied.

Anne leaned forward tensely.

“Shall you be there, Alexis?” she inquired.

He looked up into her face with utter surprise.

“I? Of course not. I’ve already taken an apartment on Gramercy Park, and shall probably go away as soon as my affairs are settled.”

Anne nodded.

“Where are you thinking of going?” she murmured conversationally.

At her indifferent tone, he shrugged nonchalantly.

“Anywhere, nowhere! The South Sea Islands—Russia, perhaps!”

Anne nodded again.

“A little touch of Bolshevism would be akin at present,” she commented drily.

He crimsoned.

“You think I’m impossible, don’t you, Anne?”

Encountering his angry, pleading gaze, she laughed uncertainly.

“I think you make life impossible for yourself—and others!”

He wheeled about and faced the fire with tragic, sullen eyes.

“You are right. I’m a curse to myself and everyone else. The sooner I am out of it the better for all.”

A tug of pain at her heart, Anne leaned forward and laid her hand upon his thick, blonde hair. “My dear, my poor dear,” her voice was compassionate and caressing.

With a guttural cry, Alexis turned, and flinging himself at Anne’s feet, buried his face in her lap.

“Don’t hate me! If you do, I shall kill myself. Say you won’t hate me. Say it!”

Tears welled up into Anne’s eyes. Taking his face in her hands, she raised it to her own. “My poor Alexis, my poor boy!”

“Why, you are crying, you love me!” he exclaimed naÏvely.

She shook her head. A faint smile traversed her quivering lips.

“I don’t know. I’m afraid not.”

Seizing her hands, he showered kisses into the upturned palms. “Anne, Anne, I love you.”

The tremulous smile still lifting her lips, she pushed him from her, and rose to her feet.

“No, Alexis, this won’t do. We must pull ourselves together, or you will have to go.”

He faced her incredulously, as she leaned, pale and enigmatic, against the mantel.

“You wouldn’t send me away now?”

She nodded.

“You would ruin our lives for the sake of a convention?” He strode towards her menacingly. But his melodramatic manner had stirred her dormant cynicism. She laughed.

“Poor Alexis, don’t take it so seriously. We would be utterly miserable together. You know it. Come, let us be content to be friends.”

She held out her hand, but he backed away angrily.

“You are heartless—cruel.” He threw himself down upon the small divan before the fire, flinging his head back amongst the cushions. “You know that you are the only thing in the world that makes life worth living for me, and yet you deny yourself to me, just because you are afraid of what people will say. Of what that cackling crowd of snickerers downstairs might think of you. I thought you were bigger than that, Anne.”

She looked down into the wrathful face with recovered self-possession.

“That crowd of snickerers, as you so politely call them, means very little in my life. But my own self-respect happens to mean a great deal. If you expect me to become your mistress just because you appeal to my compassion, you are doomed to disappointment! If my friendship will content you, that is another thing.”

Her coldness fell upon him like a revivifying shower. The apathetic young figure sprang from the divan with a bound.

“What an ass I’ve made of myself! Just because you were kind, I was fool enough to imagine you loved me. I suppose it didn’t seem possible that I could feel about you the way I do without any return from you. I—I think I’d better go.”

“No, no, Alexis, you don’t understand.”

He ignored her imploring gesture, and taking up his hat and coat, started for the door. But it was too late.

A languid footfall fell outside in the corridor. Before Anne could reach the door, it opened to admit Ellen Barnes, a rising wave of voices mounting in her wake.

With a swift movement, Anne sprang forward and closed the door behind the other woman. Standing with her back against it, she looked at Ellen with a mixture of command and appeal.

“Did you think I was never coming?” she asked. “Do go downstairs again and tell the others I’ll be there directly. I’ll explain later.”

With a keen glance into Alexis’ face, a lazy smile upon her lips, Ellen lounged into the room.

“Won’t you introduce us first? Don’t worry, I won’t give you away!” she purred. She sat down, prepared to light a cigarette.

Anne concealed her anger beneath a casual smile.

“There’s nothing to give away, as you call it, Ellen. This gentleman is calling upon me on private matters. If you will excuse us, I’ll come down as soon as he has finished telling me what he came to say.”

Ellen rose, a quizzical gleam in her eye.

“Sorry to have interrupted a business conference,” she waved her unlighted cigarette languidly. “Since when has Mr. Petrovskey given up music for stocks and bonds? Mr. Petrovskey, won’t you please become my adviser, too?”

She turned towards Alexis, good-natured mockery in her large, infantile gaze.

He stepped forward with a rueful laugh.

“I’m afraid I’m not qualified. You see, poor Mrs. Schuyler was only trying to shield me. Since—since my illness,” he choked a little and then continued swiftly, “it has been very difficult for me to meet people, and so she was kind enough to bring me up here. I—I didn’t know she was receiving tonight.”

Ellen’s eyes softened. Her faÇile sympathy was touched by the haggard young face, the pitiful and manly attempt at explanation.

“I understand perfectly, and I’m sorry I blundered in upon you like the great cow in a China shop that I am. But now that I’m here, won’t you let me say that I hope you’ll soon be better, and giving us some more of your wonderful music. I’ve heard you so many times, and of course I couldn’t help recognizing you the minute I saw your face.”

Going to the door, she put her hand on the knob. “I guess I’ll be going now. Stay as long as you like, Anne. I’ll tell them you’re dead, or have acquired a sick headache from the Bacardi.”

Anne moved forward swiftly and joined her.

“Oh, no, don’t make things out quite so black as that. I’ll come with you. And we’ll see if we can’t get rid of them. It is almost two o’clock and they ought to be leaving any minute? Then, we can return and visit with Mr. Petrovskey again. How about it?”

“Great!” said Ellen. “I want to know just how you met ‘an’ everythin’,’ as Briggs says.”

Anne looked back at Alexis pleadingly.

“Will you wait for us? I’m sure we shan’t be long. Just make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you, I shall be all right.”

He bowed stiffly as they left the room.

For a moment his hatred of the world almost included Anne. Did she think he was going to remain placidly by while she and this handsome, hulking, creature discussed his affairs? No, that was too much to ask him as yet. He must get out of here at once. When Anne did not find him she would understand. Yes, he must leave at once. But how? The front stairs were impossible, judging from the voices and laughter below. To sneak down the back way like a thief, even if he knew the way, would be utterly detestable. But what else could he do? Snatching up hat and coat, he once more muffled himself to unrecognition and was starting for the door when his eye fell upon the bell-rope. The idea of summoning Thompson to show him out the back way proved a comfortable compromise to his ruffled dignity. He pulled at the pretty tasseled vanity, and awaited the outcome with inward trepidation.

But it was Regina, not Thompson, who answered the summons.

At sight of the muffled figure the old woman nearly screamed. But before she could utter a sound Alexis seized her by the arm.

“Don’t you know me, Regina?” he whispered.

“The signorino Alexis!” exclaimed the old woman softly. “Does the signora know?”

Alexis nodded. “I have just seen her, Regina, it’s all right. She has gone downstairs again. And now I must go. Will you—will you please show me the back stairs and help me to get out without being seen? You,—you know——”

Distressed at his confusion, the old woman broke in eagerly.

“Si, si, Signorino, of course I understand. The signorino is not well, he does not wish to see a lot of strangers! If he will follow me?”

Running lightly down the corridor, she preceded him to a green baize door and held it open while he passed within. Ill at ease, raw from the recent encounter, he followed her down the back stairs and out to the side entrance.

“I hope the signorino is better?” queried Regina, as he passed by her into the areaway. “Shall he be making the music again soon?” she added eagerly.

As her meaning penetrated his misery, Alexis started, as if she had inadvertently touched some spiritual reflex. With a muttered excuse he strode out on to the sidewalk in front of the house.

The air had suddenly become raw and damp, and a blustering wind raged down the narrow street, tearing away in its passage the few last leaves from the small, sickly trees. Rain had commenced to fall in large, scattered drops.

Alexis shivered. He cast a reluctant look up at the luminous windows of the house. Voices and laughter floated out into the empty street. Shadows flitted and mingled, behind the opaque shades. He lingered uncertainly for a moment, the prey of undefinable desires.

Suddenly an excess of hilarity burst from the open door and the figure of a man and woman emerged on to the sidewalk. They passed Alexis and he instinctively crouched against the shadow of the house.

“Anne is becoming secretive in her dangerous thirties,” the woman was murmuring as they made their way towards a motor brougham that stood waiting by the curb. “You’ll have to be careful, Marchese. You know they say she’s had quite a vampish past.”

The man laughed politely.

“I’m afraid I’m too old a friend to be frightened off as easily as that, Miss Barnes. As Mrs. Schuyler knows, I am one of those tiresome fellows who never listens to scandal. It has been a pleasant evening, hasn’t it?”

The man deposited the discomfited lady within the brougham and watched the car drive off. Then, turning on his heel, he reËntered the house. Before the door closed behind him Alexis heard Anne’s voice plaintively playful.

“Was she maligning me, Vittorio?”

But the man’s answer, caressing, muffled, was lost within the house.

Shivering and dazed, Alexis pulled his collar up about his throat. Lowering his head against the rain, in a bull-like, butting gesture, he strode toward Fifth Avenue.

What a fool he had been to imagine he could interest a woman like Anne, an idolized doll, surrounded by male and female sycophants, who probably took advantage of her wealth and loneliness. A woman, whimsical as a pet kitten, who had enjoyed him like a new toy for a while, but as soon as he became hackneyed, would drop him as casually as she had taken him up. Really, it would be too callow of him to expect more! In her eyes he was only a thwarted musician who had enjoyed a flashing, comet-like success, only to be swallowed once more into the nethermost void. It was not that he grudged her elegant and expensive surroundings. He could not conceive of her in any other milieu (for instance, how uncomfortable she would be in the gorgeous, ready-made, apartment on 59th Street!) But it had all frightened him a little. He had missed the leveling camaraderie of the mountain lodge. The contrast had proved too glaring for his flimsy nerves, and he had swaggered before her like a bully. What must she think of him? What an ill-bred pup he must appear in contrast with this Marchese, this stalwart, suave man of the world who had known how to put a gossiping woman in her place without loss of temper or dignity, who had hinted of his friendship with Anne as of something too solid and enduring to be shaken by trivialities. Who was this man? What place did he occupy in Anne’s life? Was he an unacknowledged lover, or a future husband? And what chance had he, Alexis Petrovskey, the musical waif, against a man of her own caste, who not only could give her the position suited to her, but the honor which it is in the power of the poorest to bestow? While he himself had actually had the temerity to offer the ironic gift of a broken life and an illicit love. The wonder was not that she had laughed at his egotistical insanity, but that she had tempered her refusal with kindliness.

Invaded by a desolate humility, he strode out from the ravine-like street on to the avenue. Disregarding a taxi which like a benevolent but unwieldy carrier-pigeon would have taken him safely home to Gramercy Square, he hurried across the wet and glistening pavement to where the park, naked, shorn, welcomed him drearily. Entering one of the windswept paths, he sank heavily on to a bench.

This was the end. He would not try to see Anne any more. He refused to draw her down into the slough of his misery again. He would finish up his affairs, settle a certain sum upon his mother and Claire, as much as he could afford, leaving only a meager allowance for his own future. Then he would go abroad and drag out the bathos of his days in some obscure corner of the old world, where his face and name had not penetrated. And perhaps the end would not be long in coming. For he had always felt that his would not be a long life. For the candle to blow out before it had spluttered to its ignominious finish, seemed suddenly both beautiful and fitting. The thought soothed his whirling senses like a promise of peace; a colossal lullaby from the infinite. Enfolded within its majestic irony, he drifted into a reverie in which all sense of time and space was lost. Chin sunk into the clammy collar of his overcoat, he gazed before him into the dripping branches of the trees. Gazed so long and remained so motionless that he did not notice when the rain ceased to fall. Nor observed that it had gradually solidified into a jelly-like fog which coiled about the trees in sickly wreaths.

He did not even look up when a hulking shadow moved between him and the enswathed world. It was not until a mechanical “move along, move along, man, the park ain’t no dormitory,” penetrated his dull senses, that he became aware of his chilled and paralyzed body. Looking stupidly up into the dim round face of the policeman, he broke into a short, hysterical laugh, rose unsteadily to his feet and laughing and coughing, wended his way down the wind-swept path in the wake of the scattering leaves.