“Poor Vittorio, I’m not worth all this agony. Indeed, I’m not!”
“And I know I should not inflict it upon you.” His troubled brown eyes rested upon her. “But if you knew what a horror I have gone through this week! Never in all the years that we have known each other have I doubted you, Anne. In spite of what people said (you yourself know only too well how you have always been talked about) my mother and I never have listened. You have always been my Donna Immaculata and always will remain so. Nobody but yourself could dispel my faith, and even then I should feel there had been a mistake somewhere. But this talk, this terrible talk of Ellen, even your letter doesn’t explain it away entirely. I have come to you for the truth. Who is this man with whom you have been staying, Anne? And what is he to you?”
“He is Alexis Petrovskey, the violinist, and—and he is nothing to me—at present. He was very ill and I have been taking care of him. That is all.”
She avoided the earnest, seeking eyes. A vivid crimson stained her cheek. In a tea-gown of peacock blue chiffon with transparent black lace sleeves, she was infinitely desirable.
Torrigiani drew his chair closer to hers. He searched her face wistfully.
“What do you mean he is nothing to you at present? Don’t try to spare me, carissima. I want to know the truth.”
She averted her head, and played nervously with the ends of her turquoise girdle.
“I scarcely know what I mean myself, Vittorio. It is impossible to foresee the future, you know. But—but as I said in my letter, he is very dependent upon my—my friendship. He says that it is I who have brought back his music. Did you know about his misfortune, his breakdown?”
Vittorio nodded.
“Yes, I read about it in the papers. So the music has come back to him, has it? Well, that is not so extraordinary, is it?” He felt his way. “Things like that usually do come back to one, after a certain time.”