He looked up demurely from the keys. “The Petrovskey Blues!”
He broke into a revised version of the popular negro melody, transforming its plaintive simplicity into symphonic proportions. Then with a swift transition, he began to ragtime an old Italian opera. With a broad smile, Del Re strode to the piano and sang an accompaniment, in the nasal drone of the cabaret favorite. Negroid and scintillating, the parody ceased upon a plaintive chord, reminiscent of some southern spiritual.
Listeners crowded about the piano, jaded senses stirred to the shallow depths. From the background, Anne watched in fascinated silence. She did not dream Alexis had it in him, and as she looked at the flushed face an undercurrent of apprehension flowed like an icy stream below the surface of her pleasure. What could have excited him so to-night that he had ventured forth from his shell with such uncharacteristic fireworks? At Anne’s elbow, Caldenas grunted appreciatively. He was putting the last touches to a caricature of the two celebrities at the piano, which, as he quaintly put it, would immortalize their genius as well as his own.
The little Roumanian leaned over Alexis. Her perfume weighed on his irritated nerves, nauseatingly heavy. “When are you coming to see me?”
He laughed loudly. His eyes stripped her. “Never!”
She flushed and bit her naturally red lips.
“You are detestable. I am mad about you,” she whispered.
“You are maddeningly pretty, but I am immune,” he retorted, smiling up into the flower-like face with curved, saturnine lips.
She rested her hand upon the keyboard next to his.
“Your music makes me feel positively wanton!” The blue eyes swam amorously.