‘ John Maxwell,’ I answered.
She shook her head. ‘No. I do not meet him.’
The lights began to fade as the conductor took his place on the platform. Then they were out and the overture had begun. I was glad to sit back in the darkness and absorb the gaiety of Rossini’s music. But somehow it failed to lift me out of the fit of depression that had enveloped me. Maxwell’s arrival in Naples had shaken me. I had a queer feeling of being trapped and in imagination I felt unseen eyes watching me across the dark pit of the theatre. The knowledge that Maxwell was down there in the body of the theatre stood between me and the music and I got no enjoyment out of it.
‘You are cold?’ Zina’s lips almost touched my ear. Her hand closed over mine.
‘No — I’m quite warm, thank you.’
‘But you are trembling, and your hand is like ice.’ Then her fingers closed violently on mine. ‘What is it you are afraid of?‘she hissed.
‘ Nothing,’ I answered.
‘Is the girl an old love affair?’
‘No,’ I answered frigidly.
‘Then why do you shiver? Or is it the man who frighten you?’