The small round hall was paved with large black and white marble slabs. In the center was a fountain over which presided the green bronze of a nude girl. Exquisitely slender, her arms were thrown above her head to support the masses of hair from whence water spouted. It trickled over face and breast, over delicate, rounded thighs, polishing them into black marble, but leaving the slender, curved back bare and lusterless. The gurgle and splash filled the room with liquid music, as thirst-assuaging as a mountain brook. "What a lovely creature!" Anne encircled the fountain dreamily. "But doesn't her back ever get wet?" "No, she is like an ostrich. What she doesn't see simply doesn't exist. I find her very irritating. I often splash her in revenge." "How ungentlemanly!" Anne laughed. She moved away aimlessly. He put his arm through hers almost timidly. "Would you like to see your room?" "Why not?" Her voice was deliberately careless. They mounted the curving, marble stairs, arm in arm. "I hope you will like it. It is a bit rococo." "Oh, I shan't mind. I know Karzimova's taste is supposed to be somewhat barbaric. It will be quite amusing to occupy her room. But weren't you in luck to get hold of her villa?" "Yes, wasn't I?" he said simply. They had reached the large landing. Turning to the right, they entered a Gothic corridor. "Here you are." He stopped before an open door and stood aside for her to precede him. "Remember, I warned you," he finished apologetically. The entire room was done in old gold and turquoise brocade. A narrow, Empire bed, with a canopy, stood lengthwise against the wall. Large, French windows outlined by turquoise hangings, and swathed in heavy lace, opened out on to an iron balcony. A few French prints perched naughtily upon the walls. On the Buhl dressing table was a large Tiffany bowl filled with gardenias. Their amorous scent rose upon the air triumphantly. Anne stooped over them, and inhaled the heady fragrance. It penetrated and warmed her brain like old wine. "Well, what do you think of it?" She started slightly at the sound of his voice directly behind her. "A temple of love--but not at all respectable, my friend." Her laugh was both cynical and uncertain. She seated herself on the edge of the bed rather gingerly. The turquoise satin cover rustled voluptuously beneath her. "I feel like Zola's Nana, or what's her name in Pierre Louys' 'Aphrodite'." He laughed angrily. "I know it is in atrocious taste." She held out her hand with a pretty, contrite gesture. "Don't worry, dear. After all, we are ourselves, aren't we? Our surroundings can't change that. And I shall certainly be very comfortable." Once more her laugh rippled out uncontrollably. "Did you get the gardenias because the room shrieked for them, or because you really like them?" she demanded. Crouched at her feet, he leaned his cheek against her outstretched hand.