Her own eyes overflowing, Anne pillowed his head on her shoulder, and murmured comfort until he fell into a sorrowful slumber. Frequently she lay awake beside him for hours. These days filled with a continuous wave of sound, left her storm-tossed and weary. Fragments of concertos thundered through her tired brain. Mingled with a sonata, the piercing sweetness of a Berçeuse; the monotonous, but beautiful precision of an exercise, until her head hummed like the inside of a seashell, and her spirit felt as void. She envied Alexis his ability to throw off a mood at will. To forget the labors of the day in the transports of the night. And yet it was this very quality which she dreaded. After hours of planning programs and listening to excerpts from problematical choices, she was expected to play the grande amoureuse, to respond with ardor to Alexis' quenchless thirst. If Anne's embraces were tepid, her smile a little absent, her echoing and aching head was heaped with reproaches. She did not love him any more. She never had loved him. She was fickle as the new moon, and as cold. She was thinking of marrying some one else. Yes, yes, that must be it. Who was it? That snobbish fool of a Gerald Boynton, who thought he could play the piano? (The cheek of these amateurs was amusing.) Or that Marchese, of whom Ellen was constantly hinting? Why didn't she tell him and put him out of his agony immediately? She knew he was not able to marry her, himself. He was tied hand and foot to a fond fool, who would not give him his freedom. Yes, but he would take it just the same, this precious freedom, if it tore Claire into little pieces, to wrest it from her! And so on, sometimes for an hour. Until Anne's nerves shrieked for peace, and her tongue was numb from reiterated denials. Until exhausted, Alexis would cease as suddenly as he had begun, and laying his head upon her knees, beg for the forgiveness which was so ungrudgingly granted. The humility of his joy always aroused Anne's compassion. Heavy with fatigue, sorrowful for his shame, she would allow Alexis to have his way. It was not strange that Anne welcomed the peace of her aunt's Southern household, and basked wistfully within its sunny garden. And yet her memories, of course, were not all irksome. There had been hours of splendid companionship, moments of exquisite communion, and it was upon these that her thoughts preferred to dwell. Alexis absent was so much more comfortable than in the flesh. Safe from his fatiguing intensity, Anne wondered how she ever could have taken his moods so seriously. And his letters were so pathetic. Incoherent, ridiculously young, they poured forth an incense of supplication that was lyrical and even beautiful. Almost biblically flowery, Anne called them her 'Songs of Alexis,' and laughed softly over their pages.