“Confess it, Anne. You are bored unspeakably, is it not so?” exclaimed the Marchese, as he poured a few drops of Bacardi into a cup of tea, before handing it to Anne. “As for me, who have only been in New York for two weeks, I am a ruin! Not a reposeful ruin like those I am digging up in Sicily, but rather like those of Pompeii, racked by earthquake and volcanic eruptions. How can you stand it?”

Anne smiled indulgently. The Marchese’s symbolic hyperboles always amused her. Nestling into her cushions, she sipped her doctored tea.

“I am tired, Vittorio! But what else is there to do? One has got to go through the gestures, you know.”

“Gestures? Contortions, you mean! The life you are leading is about as restful, not to say dignified, as that of a trapeze performer or an animal trainer. You will break down if you don’t look out. And it doesn’t suit you, carissima, this perpetual chasing. You were intended to be a grande dame, a——”

“A Florentine Marchesa?” broke in Anne maliciously. “I believe you would like to see me, old and settled with a flock of bambini clustered about my gouty knees, and a mustache bristling above my dewy lips!”

Not at all crestfallen, the Marchese gazed merrily into her stormy eyes.

“How we hate to be tied up!” he laughed. “And how we loathe the idea of being respectable and dowagerly. The bambini, of course, I couldn’t answer for, but as to the mustache, there is always Zip!”

“Wretch!” she laughed.

The firelight played upon her pale features, as she returned his gaze. A tea-gown of claret-colored velvet clung to her relaxed body in suave folds, emphasizing the gardenia pallor of throat and arms, the russet splendor of her hair. He gave vent to his adoration.

“If you were not so slim, you’d make a gorgeous Titian as you lie there, Anne. There’s something Sixteenth Century and magnificent about you. A Bianca Cappello smiling over the rim of a poisoned goblet. There’s nothing modern about you, except your mode of life, which is as lurid and reposeful as a cubist daub. Let’s see, what was to-day’s hectic program?”

Anne laughed and reached for a crumpet. “Dressmaker’s this morning and hats. Lunch with Gerald and a matinÉe. Inquisitorial tea at present. Later, dinner at the Ritz with you and Ellen and that new Hindoo of hers, the theater again and the new dance club. That’s all. A nice little merry-go-round, warranted to keep on whirling forever, to the same tenpenny tune. With no disconcerting progress whatsoever. What more can you ask of life?” she added with a cynical little laugh.

His compassionate eyes embarrassed her, but she shrugged disdainfully.

“I admit I would have liked to do nothing to-night but sit before the fire and read one of my memoirs. But what can I do? The tickets were bought, the party arranged, so I suppose I must sip the bitter dregs of anti-climax philosophically.”

“And so unfortunately must I,” he sighed resignedly. “But the dance club, to watch you being ogled by an amorous Hindoo! I shudder. Anne, Anne, when will you put an end to my misery? Leave this, what do you call it, half-baked existence. Come with me to Florence, to Sicily. Let us lead a fuller life. A life of travel and repose, with a horizon wide enough for study and meditation, and an occasional oasis, if you desire, of theaters and dance clubs. Let our friends be those who dare to think and to do, who have learned to appreciate the exquisiteness of leisure, and not to fritter it away. You Americans treat an idle hour as if it were a horrible void that might engulf you if you didn’t diligently fill it in with little nothings.”

Much amused, Anne lit a cigarette.

“A proposal and a sermon in one breath! Really, Vittorio, you are certainly an original. You come all the way from Italy to drag me back to your prehistoric caves and then preach to me in a thoroughly mediÆval and unprehistoric manner. You spoil your own effects. I had almost made up my mind to return to Florence before Christmas—but now!”

She rolled her eyes and gestured comically.

“Don’t be capricious, Anne darling. You know I’m no preacher. And you would look adorable attired in white linen knickerbockers, riding on the back of a donkey——”

“Supporting a heavy white umbrella with one hand, and brushing off a horde of cannibalistic flies with the other—so restful and inspiring!” Anne blew smoke rings into his eager, dark face.

“There are no flies in winter, and where I’ve been working it is sometimes very cold. The white umbrella would be entirely unnecessary. My villa is an antique dream of old-rose marble and its terrace and garden seem to sweep right out into the ardent blue of the sea.”

“What about modern improvements?” inquired Anne flippantly. But at his description her pupils had expanded, her whole face had taken on a softer, more rested, expression.

“There is a bath,” he replied simply. “But of course no electricity. Hanging lamps and an army of candles shed a soft benediction over the old walls. I promise you, you will be very comfortable. It is a foolish gardener who transplants an exotic into the soil of unprotected fields.”

He leaned forward earnestly. Her eyes cloudy with feeling, she laid her hand upon his.

“You are so adorably literal, Vittorio. Such a boy in spite of all your experience! Any woman who couldn’t trust herself to go with you to the ends of the earth, would be a blind fool.”

“Then you will make up your mind? You will come?” he cried eagerly.

She shook her head with a maternal smile.

“Who knows, Vittorio? My emotions seem to be as unstable as the weather. I’m about as reliable as a will-o’-the-wisp. Better place your allegiance elsewhere, dear friend. I have kept you waiting too long already.”

He rose to his feet and stood over her vehemently.

“Never, never. There’s no woman who can compare with you, bellissima donna. And if there is, I do not want her!”

Anne’s eyes twinkled.

“How about the statuesque Ellen? One doesn’t shed turquoise necklaces for nothing.”

He blushed like a guilty school boy.

“Were you jealous, Anne?” His eyes were uncontrollably eager.

“Perhaps a little. If it would please you, Vittorio?” she teased.

He threw back his head, laughing ruefully.

“It is impossible to get the better of you. I retire defeated, as usual.” He pointed with an expressive forefinger at the clock. “I imagine Regina is fuming outside in the corridor, waiting to slip some new magnificence upon you, to dazzle us all with to-night. But she cannot improve upon perfection.”

Indicating the claret velvet with a quick gesture, he bent over her hand and kissed it lightly.

As the door closed behind him, Anne’s smile faded. She dropped back onto the chaise-longue and closed her eyes.

The last ten days had been horrible. A kaleidoscopic nightmare with about as much plot and sequence as a Broadway revue. The only consoling factor being the large and sane devotion of Vittorio. Gerald had made an amorous bore of himself, and she had had to snub him. And Ellen, well it had been too detestable of her to recognize Alexis at sight like that. And her way of accepting Anne’s explanation, more than irritating. Indulging in one or two lovers a year, she was delighted to catch Anne in what she transparently considered a similar frailty. It had been still more humiliating to have to demand secrecy. But in order to protect Alexis, it had been the only thing to do. And although Ellen’s good nature was proverbial, so was her indiscretion. To expect her to keep eternal silence upon her discovery of the return of Alexis Petrovskey, over whom the entire musical world was agog, would be demanding a stoical repression of which the woman was incapable. It was only a question of time before Alexis’ secret would be common property. Meanwhile the only thing to do was to keep Ellen in a good humor and watch her like a hawk, which was more difficult than usual, as she was resting between plays and insisted upon attending every show and dance club in New York, until Anne’s nerves were frayed and existence had become a monotonous nightmare of jazz and naked shoulders.

And the worst of it was that Anne had neither seen nor heard from Alexis since he had disappeared from the house on that ghastly night of his coming. She had returned to her sitting room after the others had all gone, to find it empty except for Regina, whose explanation of his hurried flight had not proved very comforting. Evidently, he had been wounded to the quick, not only by her coldness, but by the entire ignominious situation. Her offer of a tepid friendship had driven him away perhaps forever. Otherwise how could his continued silence be accounted for? He had mistaken hesitation for anger, ridicule as dismissal. Although he must have been exposed for years, ever since adolescence, to that greedy feminine horde who prey upon the matinÉe idol, he had remained almost virginal. Even marriage had not destroyed a certain quality of innocence, at once boyish and pathetic. A quality which appealed to Anne’s disillusionment more strongly than any amount of savoir faire. And she knew instinctively that his love for her, although young as yet, was genuine. Yes, he loved her, and yet, he had found the courage not to break silence for ten days. And she, herself, had permitted matters to drag along, expecting a message from him any moment.

But if the silence continued much longer, she would have to do something. Gramercy Park is limited after all, and she would find him if she had to canvass every house on the Square.

Meanwhile, what had happened to him? Had her defection driven him back to the old misery and despair? Was he lonely and hag-ridden, in a music-less hell that might peradventure drive him to suicide? Or had he perhaps come to his senses and returned to his wife in sheer cynical weariness? Of course, that would be the best thing that could happen to him and she, Anne, sincerely tried to hope that it had.

Probably at this moment, while she was worrying herself almost sick over him, he was partaking of the fatted calf at the family board.

The thought set her suddenly upon her feet. She stood and looked down into the flames moodily. Why had she permitted herself to get into such a state of nerves? Why worry about a neurotic, love-sick boy whom, a few weeks ago, she had never even met? Why not take the whole thing as an incident, interesting no doubt while it lasted, but now closed? She shrugged. She knew all the time that she was desperately unhappy, and would remain so until she was sure of Alexis’ whereabouts.

Meanwhile, life must go on, and if she did not dress immediately she would hold up the whole party. While she had been mooning over Alexis like a love-sick school-girl, the time had flown by relentlessly, and soon poor Vittorio would be back to take up the weary grind once more.

A smile of self-ridicule upon her lips, she went into the adjoining bedroom and submitted herself to the impatient ministrations of Regina.

“I know I am late,” she admitted impenitently. “But I had my bath before tea and there isn’t really much to do.” She slipped out of the tea-gown and handed it to the woman. “I know just how cross you are. Just how much you hate New York, and all the rest of it. So do cheer up, there’s a dear!”

Sitting on the edge of the white bed, she held out a long, slim leg which Regina vested with stocking and slipper the ripe hue of old gold.

“The signora will be sick if she goes on like this!” muttered the old woman. “And the poor Signor Marchese looks like death!”

Anne rose and looked at herself in the cheval-glass with a laugh. Slim and boyish in her silken slip-ons, gold stockings glimmering on rounded calves, she was particularly alluring. How absurd to indulge in melodramatics when one was looking exactly like a glove-silk undervest advertisement in Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar!

“Poor Regina, how she loves her Marchese,” she teased. She threw a nÉgligÉe over polished shoulders and sat down before the gay little toilet table.

“Do my hair as quickly as you can,” she added. “The poor man will be back for me within the half hour.”

Regina sighed pleasurably.

“He’s a gallantuomo,” she murmured. Pulling out the large shell pins, she allowed Anne’s hair to fall over her shoulders in a copper cascade.

“Is the signora thinking of returning to Florence before Christmas this year?” she hinted, brush in hand.

Anne laughed again.

“What a shameless propagandist you are, Regina! Would it please you if I did?” she added, avoiding the eyes in the mirror almost shyly.

Her cherished hopes for the Marchese flaming upwards, the Italian manipulated the golden coils deftly. “The signora knows only too well!” she replied with naÏve dignity. She placed a jeweled bandeau about Anne’s head. “The hair is a marvel to-night, and in the gown of gold brocade the Signora will be magnificent. She should be going to Court and not wasting herself upon Broadway.”

Her characteristic snort of contempt delighted Anne. She led her on to more flagrant abuse, wriggling into the golden gown in high amusement. Then very regal in a Kolinsky evening coat, she swept down upon the waiting Marchese.

“Regina has been so funny,” she said.

He took her hand and looked down into her mocking face with renewed enchantment.

“The poor thing will never rest until she sees your coronet pressing down my auburn locks.”

His laugh was tender.

“I shall have to pension her handsomely, shall I not?” he said lightly, as the butler opened the door for them to pass out.

The night was clear but unexpectedly cold. Over the tops of the high, narrow houses a hard heaven was studded with metallic stars. Anne shivered and drew closer to the Marchese.

“This hateful cold, it chills me to the marrow,” she murmured, between chattering teeth, as they went towards the car.

He stopped in his tracks, and bent over her.

“Let us leave it all behind us, Anne. Come with me to Italy!”

The entreaty was almost a command. Anne looked up into his face with growing decision. After all,—why not? She had kept him waiting long enough. She was about to speak, to put an end to his doubts, when a yellow taxi grazed the corner and stopped noisily back of Anne’s motor.

A slight figure jumped out and hurried across the sidewalk towards them.

“Is this Mrs. Schuyler?” inquired an eager young voice. Anne turned about in surprise. Where had she heard that intense voice, those words before? Apprehension descended upon her. She drew still closer to Vittorio.

“Yes, this is Mrs. Schuyler,” she answered mechanically. “What is it, what is the matter?”

An insistent hand was laid upon Anne’s sleeve.

“This is Claire Petrovskey. I have come to tell you that Alexis is very ill, and to ask if you will come to him at once. He wants you.” The voice faltered. Then as Anne continued to look down at her in a daze, continued harshly, “Oh, don’t you understand? Alexis is ill and he needs you!”

She shook Anne by the arm.

A sudden light came into Anne’s clouded eyes. A spasm of fear gripped her. She threw an arm about the girl’s shoulders and hurried her towards the motor.

“Of course I will come,” she cried unevenly. “Here, get into the car. Where to?”

She pushed the girl into the limousine and paused a moment beside Vittorio to collect herself.

“I’m so sorry, Vittorio,” she said hurriedly. “But you see I cannot possibly go with you to-night. A—a friend of mine is very ill and I must go to him at once. I’m sure you understand. I hate to drop you this way, but you’ll take the taxi? Won’t you? And go without me?”

A quiver passed over the Marchese’s face. He bowed rather stiffly.

“Of course, Anne. You must do what is right. But it will be a great disappointment to us all.” He hesitated. “Shall I see you again soon?”

Compunction seized her.

“Come to tea with me to-morrow,” she said with renewed composure. “I wish I could explain all this to you now, but I simply haven’t the time.”

She touched him lightly on the arm and then stepped into the car. A moment later she and Claire Petrovskey were whisked around the corner and into Park Avenue.

The Italian stared after them with a strange expression. He settled with the taxi-driver, then turned to reËnter the house. He would telephone immediately to Ellen and tell her to procure another couple for the night’s festivities. A walk down the length of Fifth Avenue, a solitary tÂble d’hÔte at some obscure Italian restaurant were more to his mood.