Mac Dougal Alley on a black, starless night was quite Hogarthian, decided the Marchese, as he pressed Ellen’s doorbell, the ultra-chic in slums! He encountered the fathomless black eyes of the Chinese girl who admitted him, with a smile. What a white, round face, like an enigmatic moon. Did it conceal a personality as void as that lifeless planet? The gorgeous little figure preceded him into the house. He looked about him with amusement.

A diminutive hall had been rendered significant, not to say sinister, by being lined to the ceiling by large black and white tiles, and encircled by a Gauguinesque frieze, negroid and undefinably lecherous. By the door, two grinning sable cats supported a black marble bench. Leaving hat and coat in their guardianship, the Marchese entered the drawing room.

It was like going into a twilight grotto. Everything from heavy brocaded hangings to the deep pile carpet, dripped lavender. One felt as if one were treading upon crushed violets. Torrigiani sank down upon a lavender sofa and stared aghast into the expressionless eyes of a slightly soiled nude over the black marble fireplace. Her eyes look like tired oysters, he thought, his mind wandering emptily. And the room about as cheerful as the inside of a casket, done by an expensive and lady-like undertaker. The candle in the tall bracket by his side guttered audibly. He started. Where the devil was everybody? He had understood it was to be a large party. Surely he was not ahead of time? No, for the large black clock was tolling a quarter past eight, and was not that the voice of his hostess?

He rose and walked towards the door. Somber draperies hanging from white shoulders, Ellen strolled into the room elaborately languid, as usual.

“Ah, Marchese, I see you are admiring my little nest,” she drawled. He bent over her hand.

“I am speechless,” he murmured. “It is utterly beyond my poor comprehension. I feel like the intruding cuckoo.”

With a purring laugh, she laid her hand upon his arm and led him back to the sofa.

“You are a flatterer, like all foreigners. That is why we adore you so. But confess, it’s not much like your palaces?”

She leaned forward. Her heavy perfume swept over him with the intimacy of a caress. He recoiled imperceptibly.

“My dear lady, our palaces are only called so by courtesy. Compared to your American houses, they are barracks. We may have a few treasures, but”—he hesitated, his eyes twinkling enigmatically. “No such taste, I assure you.”

Ellen laughed.

“Confess you think it is all atrocious? But it is only a fad. You mustn’t take this too seriously. A year from now the whole thing will probably be done over in flaming scarlet, festooned with monkeys and cocoanuts.”

“In a species of inverse evolution, I suppose?” His comical expression sat upon him gayly.

The exotic little Chinese entered with cocktails. Torrigiani noted with dismay that there were only two glasses. Was the tÊte-À-tÊte to endure all evening? His raised eyebrows piqued Ellen. She answered his unspoken question with gay malice.

“Yes, we are to be alone. I wanted to have you all to myself. Am I not selfish?” She handed him his cocktail with a queenly gesture and smiled languidly into his noncommittal eyes.

“Delightfully so!” he bowed ceremoniously over the small jade cup.

“Quel beau geste! Confess you were expecting to meet Anne here!” Below their somnolent surface, her eyes searched him.

He laughed warily.

“I’ll confess my expectations did not rise to a tÊte-À-tÊte. I feel decidedly flattered.” His ironic gaze mocked her politely over the rim of the cocktail.

She swept to her feet and led him toward the Gothic archway at the end of the room.

“The beautiful solitude will only last during dinner.” She smiled at him over a massive shoulder. “After that, the usual horde will probably invade. So we must make the most of our time.”

Torrigiani’s heart leapt upwards once more. So there was to be a crowd after all? Was Anne to make one of them? Or would she disappoint him again, as she had this afternoon? It was the first time she had ever broken an engagement, and his spirit still smarted from the defection.

With a lighter step he followed his hostess. Stopping at the threshold of the dining room, he exclaimed with involuntary admiration.

The white-washed walls of the small square room were covered with varicolored caricatures of Ellen and the numberless notorieties who formed the horde. They sprawled from paneled baseboard to black oaken ceiling, lurid and ludicrous. Intimate smile and gesture captured in ruthless hyperbole.

“I never saw anything so original in my life! It makes one think of a curtain from the Chauve Souris!”

The Marchese went close to the wall and scanned it eagerly. Although his knowledge of New York celebrities was limited, he found several whom he recognized. Their names fell off his lips with a small fanfare of triumph.

His childish pleasure amused Ellen. She stepped to his side and pointed out several more, including herself as Juliet. “I was dismal in that,” she remarked plaintively. “Even the Shakespearian flapper doesn’t suit my style.”

Running her finger along the painted faces, she let it rest upon a gorgeous blonde with Titian hair and a glassy eye and smile. “Who’s that?” she queried, with a mocking air.

For a moment he looked incredulous.

“Not—not Anne?” he begged. The ghastly similitude smote ludicrously.

“You have said it. Isn’t she dazzling, like a Pepsodent advertisement, or the ‘only one out of five’ who escaped pyorrhea?” Ellen laughed loudly.

“It’s blasphemy, pure and simple! And neither simple nor pure. Your artist ought to be hung for libel.”

They went to the table and he seated her. It was one of those narrow, casket-like affairs with large candles at the head and foot and an artificial spray of diseased-looking orchids sprawling over the center.

The Chinese girl, supplemented by an equally-gorgeous twin, passed hors d’oeuvres. He helped himself to truffles in aspic and caught Ellen’s gaze resting upon him maliciously from the other end of the table.

“Where did you and Anne go last night?” she flashed.

He returned her stare blankly. “Why, nowhere, of course,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

Ellen’s eyes glowed in the candle-light. “You needn’t expect me to believe that! Gerald and I knew you were up to something. But it was a dirty trick to desert us like that at the last minute! The evening was a mess.”

She glared at him rapaciously, as if she were trying to suck his secret from him with her eyes. Almost too astonished to speak, he returned her strange look unflinchingly.

“Didn’t you get my telephone message?”

“Oh, that! Of course. But it’s such an old trick! A sick friend wanting Anne at the last minute. It was so very transparent. Things simply don’t happen like that!”

He contained his anger with difficulty.

“You are a very astute lady, but this time a mistaken one, as well,” he replied quietly. “Mrs. Schuyler actually did go to a sick friend, and I myself put her into her car and saw her off before telephoning you.”

Ellen opened sleepy eyes. So it was true, after all?

“But who was it? Who is ill?” she inquired eagerly.

One of the exotic twins removed the hors d’oeuvres.

“I don’t know,” replied the Marchese curtly. “But as we were about to get into Mrs. Schuyler’s car to join you” (he emphasized the last three words with a little bow), “a taxi drove up to the curb and a young girl jumped out, ran up to Anne, and said something I did not quite catch about somebody being very ill and calling for her constantly. So Anne went with her, of course. What else could she do?”

“And left you on the curb? Chewing your mustache in a properly thwarted manner!” capped Ellen, exhibiting a masterly knowledge of histrionics.

“Exactly.” His smile was rueful.

Ellen’s expression became rapt. Lighting a cigarette, she leaned back and puffed at it furiously.

“Who could it have been?” she helped herself to the artichokes. Then her whole face lightened with the dawn of a sudden idea. “I have it!” She looked at Torrigiani gleefully. “I tell you I have it!”

His composed face betrayed small interest. Holding his glass of ChÂteau Yquem up against the light he studied it intently.

“What a marvelous wine.” His hand trembled as he let the glass down again with a slight jar.

Ellen interrupted him ruthlessly.

“It must have been Alexis Petrovskey,” she cried triumphantly.

His olive skin paled a trifle.

“Alexis Petrovskey, the violinist?” His voice was studiously calm. “But weren’t the papers full of his disappearance a while ago?”

She nodded joyfully. “The same! And thereby hangs the tale! As a matter of fact, he did run away from his sanitarium, but he is back again now, hiding behind Anne’s skirts.”

The Marchese winced. He was a little off his guard.

“But I don’t understand. When did Anne meet this—person? She has never mentioned him to me.”

She nodded wisely.

“Of course not. Why should she mention him? The whole thing was rather an adventure, you know, for a white, woolly lamb like Anne!”

“Are you insinuating anything?” His tone was cold.

Ellen leaned her elbows comfortably upon the table, while she munched at an olive. “Now don’t get cross,” she said smoothly. “I’m only repeating what Anne told me herself. And you can hardly call that gossip, can you?”

He shook his head. “Hardly.”

“Well, it seems that this Autumn, when she was up in the Adirondacks alone with Regina, she came upon Petrovskey one day in the woods. He was wandering about, half out of his mind with fatigue. (He had escaped from the sanitarium, or was it the lunatic asylum?) She felt so sorry for him that she took him back with her to the lodge and they spent the next ten days there together.”

His pale face became crimson.

“How did Anne happen to tell you this?” The sight of the food on his plate suddenly nauseated him. He pushed it a little to one side.

Ellen looked at him with gentle reproach.

“You don’t trust me, do you?” she wailed. “Well, if you want to know the truth——”

(What else should I want to know, he thought savagely?)

“I found him up in her sitting-room the night she arrived home. The first time you and I met each other, do you remember?”

Her eyes pleaded in vain. He nodded shortly.

“I have not forgotten.”

Ellen’s tongue passed over encrimsoned lips. “Well, she tried to pass him off as a legal adviser or something. But I knew better. I recognized him the minute I entered the room! So of course I told them so! Later, when we were alone I wormed it all out of Anne. It’s quite simple, you see.”

“Quite! What sort of fellow is this Petrovskey? I’ve never had the pleasure of hearing him play.”

Ellen smiled reminiscently.

“Perfectly fascinating, in a haggard way! And the rudest thing! He would have enjoyed killing me, I know!”

“How can you say such a thing!” Torrigiani laughed wryly. “The fellow is probably in love with you like all the rest of us.”

She shook a finger at him.

“You’re an insinuating wretch! I only wish you were right. I’d adore to have a genius like that in love with me, even if he is a nut. But he’s so crazy about Anne that he can’t see straight. I’m sure I don’t know what’s going to happen!”

Vittorio’s heart skipped a beat. “Is this interesting affection mutual?”

“Oh, I hope not. He would make a terrible husband. So egotistical, you know.”

Husband! The Marchese’s knuckles showed white about his wine-glass.

“And he is much younger than she!” Ellen’s eyes rested upon him blandly. “At least ten years. But you never can tell what a woman will do when she is infatuated!”

He gathered himself together.

“Aren’t you exaggerating a little? Mrs. Schuyler has hardly reached the foolish age as yet. I’m positive she wouldn’t dream of marrying a man younger than herself!”

“Such things have happened!” Ellen’s shrug was eloquent. “Shall we take our coffee in the other room? I believe I hear voices.”

He followed her trailing draperies out of the room with unutterable relief. Escape was imperative. He would seize the first opportunity that offered. In the drawing room several men were already grouped before the lugubrious mantel and Ellen’s entrance was greeted vociferously. Sucking her into their midst, they circled about her like a black whirlpool.

Torrigiani was accosted by Gerald.

“Hello, Marchese, what are you doing in this galÈre?” His tired eyes expressed surprise at seeing Vittorio without Anne.

Torrigiani smiled politely.

“I don’t belong, do I? As a matter of fact, I’m going on elsewhere immediately.” He looked guiltily towards Ellen.

Gerald laughed. “Meditating escape? Well, I won’t give you away.”

They smoked in silence for a few moments.

“What do you think of the house?” Gerald waved a languid hand at the lavender walls.

“Remarkable!”

“But you ought to see the bathroom!” The tired eyes grinned salaciously. “Done in gold leaf with black frieze representing scenes from ‘Le Roi Pausole.’ Hot tamale! Shall I show it to you?”

The Marchese declined hastily. Another time he would be only too pleased! At present he must make his adieux.

Threading his way through the small room, which was crowding rapidly, he bent over Ellen’s large, white hand.

“Must you leave?” she laughed lazily, “and just as we are going to play Baccarat? What a shame. Give her my love!”

Torrigiani smiled back with well-bred insolence. “I prefer to keep it all myself!”

Outside, MacDougal’s Alley was filled with quite un-Hogarthian motors. The air felt cold and sweet after the heavily perfumed house. And although his hotel was well up in the Fifties, Torrigiani decided to walk.

“Just one more spoonful. There, that’s a good boy!” With a pleased expression, Anne laid the empty cup upon the night table. “Hot milk isn’t so ghastly, after all, is it?”

Alexis shook his head. Upon his lips rode the ecstatic smile of a two-year old whose mother has just returned from the great unknown.

“Nectar,” he whispered, above still-painful breathing.

She raised an admonishing finger. But her smile was compassionate.

“Don’t talk. Remember your promise? If you break it, I shall have to go. Miss Wilson has come back for the night and she is very severe, you know.”

He caught the reproving finger and pressed it against his cheek, where the bristly down of a new beard was forming. His eyes gleamed above the crimson cheek-bones.

“Anne, you are beautiful,” he disobeyed. “Anne, I worship you.”

She drew away her hand, and laid it reprovingly upon his laboring chest.

“I shall have to go, I see. Good-night, Alexis.” She bent over him and brushed her lips across his forehead. “May your sleep bring health!” Unshed tears glittered upon her lashes.

He clutched at her skirts baby-wise. “Don’t forget your promise,” he whispered. “To come back when you are ready for bed with your hair down, just like last night?”

A flush swept over the ivory face, leaving it paler than before. “Oh, Alexis, must I?” she pleaded.

His nod was tyrannical.

She returned a few minutes later, swathed in the old-gold saut-de-lit.

“Well, here I am,” she murmured from the threshold, feeling strangely brazen.

His arms leapt out to meet her, then fell disappointedly.

“But your hair,” he muttered. “You haven’t taken down your hair!”

“It occurred to me that you might like to do that yourself.” She advanced and knelt beside the bed.

“Oh, yes—yes!”

For an ecstatic moment his trembling hands fumbled with the heavy pins. Then her hair, a rippling shower of perfumed copper, fell between them. With a gasp, Alexis laid his hands in it. Twisting a clinging lock about his fingers, he kissed it wildly. The tears starting beneath closed lids he fell back limply upon the bed.

A lump in her throat, Anne shook her head. “Alexis, this is bad for you. Let me go,” she whispered in a frightened voice. Beneath the laboring chest his heart leapt up at her like a caged, thing. It made her afraid. “I must go.”

“No, no,” he whispered, “don’t leave me, Anne. Let me die like this. It is too beautiful!”

With a smothered sob, she laid her wet cheek against his.

“No, no, you must live Alexis—you must live—for me.”

He opened his eyes for the sheer wonder of it.

“Anne, do you mean it? Is it a promise?”

“Yes,” her lips mumbled softly against his unshaven cheek. “It is a promise, my poor Alexis.”

She unwound the lock from about his fingers. He did not protest, but only gazed up into her face pleadingly, like a sick child. “Must you go, Anne?”

She nodded speechlessly.

“Will you kiss me?”

With a little stifled cry of pity, she sank into the outstretched arms.

His scorched lips drank of her cool, soft mouth. She staggered to her feet and stood looking down upon him, encountering the dilated, rapturous gaze. Had she allowed him to become so excited that he might not sleep? She struggled gently to free her hands. “Good-night, Alexis,” she insisted.

But he retained her hands with a new, convulsive force.

“No, no. You mustn’t go,” he reiterated. “Not now!”

He sat up in bed, and releasing her, pointed toward the studio.

“My violin—get it for me!” he whispered.

She stood aghast, feet glued to the floor.

“Your violin?” she muttered stupidly.

His quick gesture was full of anger.

“Yes, yes. Be quick before the music leaves me again! The violin’s in the corner by the piano.”

Her heart beating in great bounds, she brought him the instrument, and watched with brimming eyes while he placed it beneath his chin, and drew the bow in a great sweep over the strings.

It had all come back with new and overwhelming radiance.

As he broke into the Canzonetta from Tchaikowsky’s concerto, Anne sank on to the foot of the bed with trembling knees.

When Miss Wilson, frightened, protesting, ran to the door, she stopped her with almost a disdainful gesture. It was her turn to command now. Let professional quibbling wait.

The music soared a rapturous, throbbing melody, then quavered suddenly into echoing silence—a silence that vibrated as if from invisible strings. The violin slipped from Alexis’ fingers on to the bed. He fell back against his pillows and Anne thought that he had fainted.

But it was only a deep sleep into which the overwhelming wave of joy had suddenly plunged him. At least that was what Miss Wilson said, as she tucked the clothes up around the thin shoulders.

Rare tears coursing down her cheeks, Anne looked down upon Alexis. She lifted the violin from the bed, and putting it reverently into its case, tiptoed out of the room.

As she laid it upon the piano, she sank on to the bench with a little sobbing cry, her face buried in her hands.

“Thank God,” she sobbed. “Thank God!”

Later, back in her alcove, she realized that mortal fatigue had suddenly fallen upon her. She crept wearily into the little day-bed and lay prostrate between marble-cool sheets. Would the tomb feel as cold, she wondered idly.

If Alexis recovers I am pledged.

Dawn thrust an ashen face against the window and found Anne milk-white, wide-eyed, lying within the brazen mantle of her hair.