“Has Mr. Petrovskey arrived?”
Regina nodded. The black brows knitted themselves above troubled eyes. “He awaits in the sitting-room, Signora.”
Something was very much the matter. Had Alexis been snubbing the poor old dear? Anne assumed a gay nonchalance.
“Well, was it not a concert after your own heart, Regina? A triumph and a marvel?”
The woman raised knotted hands to heaven. “He is an angel, Signora! Inspired by the Madonna and all the saints. He could melt the heart of the devil himself, not to speak of poor old Regina!” Her face fell suddenly. “After a trionfo like that, he should be gay as the bird. But he is not, Signora mia. He walk up the stairs with a face like one black cloud. He never say a word to poor Regina!”
“He is tired. You must excuse him. He is usually so nice to you, you know.”
“Ah, si, si!”
Anne proceeded slowly up the stairs. So she would have to cope with a mood! Ennui surged over her. In that moment she understood fully the weary distaste of a man who has to deal with a hysterical woman. Oh, why was Alexis so temperamental? She shrugged, and turning the knob of the sitting room door, entered.
Apparently unoccupied, the only light came from the cheerful fire which chuckling upon the hearth like a contented hen, lent an amber glow to the paneled walls where Sargent’s portrait of Anne’s mother smiled gently in its antiquated garb. Anne pressed her finger on the electric button by the door. A golden stream flooded the shadowy corners. Upon a sofa at the extreme end of the room lay Alexis. At her approach, he drew an audible, almost sobbing breath, and sat up and faced her. The thick hair rumpled into a comb over knotted brows, his eyes were somber.
“Where have you been? I thought you would never come!” He walked swiftly towards her.