His tone had both distressed and annoyed her. Why did men always take things for granted? Even Vittorio, who had known her for the last ten years could not seem to understand the many-faceted urge which impelled her actions.

“But Vittorio, I don’t think I do love him,” she had remonstrated patiently. “That is, I’m not in love with him. He is really more like a child than a man in some ways. A fascinating, precocious child, of course, but sometimes a very naughty one!”

And then she was sorry to have admitted so much, for she sensed that her words had resounded upon Vittorio’s heart like a blow.

“Not that he’s not good to me,” she hastened to add, impelled by pride and pity. “A bit difficult at times, because he knows that he cannot make me his wife. But I don’t really mind. For I’m so sorry for him.”

The rest of the drive had proceeded in stark silence, punctuated at intervals by those scattered inanities by which one strives to cover the nakedness of the soul.

As he sat beside her to-night, Anne surmised the torture that Vittorio had undergone. Her knowledge of his character was founded upon years of comradeship. A proud man, it must have been sheer agony for him to realize her anomalous position. To feel that she had been content to take second best when he had offered her his all so many times and been rejected. And yet although it was inevitable that he should suffer, not once had he made her feel any lessening of his respect, or even of his love. He had understood so much better than most men the impulse of pity that lay back of her surrender. He had seemed to comprehend, too, the temporal quality of it all. Anne knew that if she would leave Alexis and go to Vittorio some day he would not only consider her as unsmirched as before, but possibly better for the experience. He was unique among men in that he realized the sacrificial quality of her action. The only thing that he would not forgive would be hypocrisy. Of that she was aware, to her despair. For it was this very thing that had severed them like a sword when they parted. Vittorio believed that out of some motive of pity, and possibly of modesty, Anne was deceiving him about her feeling for Alexis. She knew he believed this and yet she was as powerless to undeceive him as she was to take up the imaginary sword that lay between them and thrust it into her living breast. Oh, why had she not obeyed her instinct for flight, and avoided this perilous encounter? What a tragedy of errors they had all drifted into. What a farce it was. A trick of the ironical gods who dig colossal fingers into one’s ribs and expect one to laugh like a babe being tickled. Why had Vittorio returned to-night of all nights? To-night when she had been riding upon the pinnacle? Why had their eyes encountered in that shattering glance, which had flung her once more into the abyss of doubt and fear? She had felt so exultant in Alexis’ triumph. So eager to pour renewed radiance upon his victory and his fatigue. And now the desire had completely departed, sucked into the mud of anti-climax.

But this mood was not only foolish, but dangerous. To-night was big with significance. She must retain the glamor at all costs. To-night belonged to Alexis. It was his triumph and re-entry into his birthright. Upon it, his genius had emerged, new-born and greater than ever before, as if in temporary recoil it had acquired impetus. Yes, to-night was Alexis’ and hers, for was it not her love that had re-created him? Was not his inspiration begotten of their passion as truly as if it had been a child of flesh and blood? No, Alexis must never suspect the still-born quality of her joy. Nor that she was relying upon his living blaze to rekindle her own flame.

To-night had a special significance too, in the fact that she was permitting him to come to her in her own house for the first time since they had become lovers. Fear that the servants, those ancient slave-drivers of convention, might talk, had hitherto rendered her cautious. But this was a special occasion for which she had decided to break all rules. It would have been intolerable not to have rejoiced together to-night. And sacrilege to have done so in public. Even now she had been discreet and arranged for most of her household to be out. Regina alone, had prepared the little supper, which was to be served before the fire in the upstairs sitting-room. Regina, who would have returned from the concert herself, and who had probably shed tears of joy over Alexis’ triumph. Dear old Regina of the keen eyes and wise heart, who, suspecting all, had never let fall a hint or a reproach. Poor Regina, who had not permitted herself to speak of the Marchese since his departure, and whose plucky spirit was, as Anne knew, heavy with nostalgia for Florence and the beloved villa.

CHAPTER XXIII
DISSONANCE

The car had turned an abrupt corner and stopped before the house. Regina opened the door, a metamorphosed Regina clad in concert regalia, very respectable and solid. Upon her face an expression of exaltation was overlaid by one of anxiety. Anne attributed the exaltation to the concert. Regina had all the Latin’s adoration for music. But the anxiety was somewhat puzzling.