He looked radiant. “To-morrow, and every day while you are here!” he said with the tyrannical air of a spoiled child. “But you must play with me now, this minute. The music only arrived yesterday and I haven’t tried it yet.” He looked at once so wistful and so happy that Anne relented.
“Very well, but only for a little while, mind!”
They entered the house. Rather over-elaborate, the long drawing room was furnished in the French Algerian style with several large divans and an immense Bokhara rug that covered the entire floor. In the corner stood a grand piano brought by Alexis from Cairo. Anne seated herself before it and gave Alexis the key. Hopkins brought up a chair and placed it by the piano for Alexis. He dropped into it with a sulky little air, and commenced to tune up.
“Hopkins thinks it tires me to stand,” he apologized crossly.
Then he broke into the dance, ancient fire unquenched, technique magnificently perfected. Plying the keyboard mechanically, Anne listened, shaken to the very marrow. For a moment it seemed as if time had never existed and she was back again in Long Island, young lover by her side, their souls welded in an ecstasy of sound.
Then Alexis stopped suddenly. He reeled in his chair. “I’m—a bit giddy,” he gasped. The violin dropped on to the floor from inert fingers. Then came the cough, the racking typhoon of a cough that shattered the frail body in its gust.
Speechless with terror, Anne and Vittorio looked at each other helplessly. Hopkins poured some medicine into a wine-glass and held it ready. He shook his head sorrowfully.
“He shouldn’t ’ave done it, ma’am. ’Is cough do be cruel such times.”
A stained handkerchief to his lips, Alexis lay back in his chair. Anne’s eyes fixed themselves upon the blood with a shudder of pity. The medicine administered, she took Hopkins aside.
“Tell me the worst,” she said below her breath. “Is—is he dying?”