The Marchese surveyed her retreat with a whimsical smile.
“I am very much frightened,” he said, turning towards the delighted Ellen, who sprawled largely nonchalant upon her cushions. “Was it not Hedda Gabler to-night?”
“Oh yes, a revival,” exclaimed Ellen eagerly. “Do you think the part suits me?”
The Marchese’s reply was more than satisfactory. But his eyes followed the figure of the other woman.
Her apple green dress, clinging closely about her, Anne was crossing the room. They will want me to dance, I suppose, she thought, looking about her with dissatisfaction. She felt suddenly un-at-home, almost ill at ease. The familiar surroundings still appealed with the claim of long association. The tempera walls still soothed, the carved Florentine furniture had lost no dignity, but somehow tonight the carefully chosen austerity rang false. Or was it merely that she was bored? Yes, bored almost to tears by the deafening prattle of the puppets she had gathered together? Yes, that was it. Why had she never sensed their incongruity so strongly before?
She approached the multi-colored group at the piano and looked down into the face of the boy seated at the keyboard. Brilliant, degenerate, his playing just escaped the professional. As he returned her gaze, something wistful and defiant within the tired eyes suddenly struck at Anne’s heart. Something that seemed to cry: “there is a devil within me, but I did not put him there. Besides, who cares?”
Anne leaned over him. Her emerald earrings tinkled gaily in his face. A faint perfume swept his façile senses.
“How goes it, Gerald?” she said quietly.
“Oh, life’s a dirge, as usual.” A smile painted upon the wistfulness, he flung back his head and with distended nostrils seemed to inhale her into his consciousness. Then springing up, he held out his arms.
“Let us drown sorrow in a dance,” he begged. Pushing a rather naked and wild-eyed young woman into his seat he commanded her to play. “A waltz, anything so long as it is immediate!”