“Look who’s here!”
In a flame-colored chiffon frock, Olive Fay darted up to Alexis.
“Please dance with me, Mr. Petrovskey?”
“Of course, that’s what I came for!” His hard gaze hovered over her naked young shoulders. “But first, where is my hostess?”
She pouted. “How old-fashioned of you to remember your hostess! But come along, Old Ironsides, if you must.”
The dancing had recommenced. They dashed through revolving couples to the sofa in front of the fire, where Anne was sitting with a large, dark man, whom Alexis recognized as Del Re, the South American opera singer. In a dream-like dance dress of sapphire tulle over pale-green chiffon, the emerald pendant upon her breast, Anne watched their approach with concealed astonishment. So Alexis had come after all! Why? The brilliant eyes, the twisted smile puzzled her. Had he been listening to some rumor about Del Re? Was the old serpent of jealousy once more coiling to strike her long-suffering head?
“How nice of you to change your mind!” she murmured, a question beneath her composure, “Have you met Señor Del Re? Mr. Petrovskey.”
The familiar pang gnawing at his vitals, Alexis suppressed it savagely. “Who does not know the celebrated Mephisto? You have given me many a thrill, Señor.”
“Is there a thrill left in New York?” Del Re’s crooked eyebrow curved whimsically. “I thought they were all in your violin, Petrovskey! Thrills? You are the master there!” There was genuine admiration in the cello-like tones.
“Yes, isn’t he wonderful?” shrilled Olive. “I am going to dance with him this very minute. I’ve simply got to be seen in his company, that’s all!”