Anne's impressions of the intermission were hazy. Barely conscious of the inroad of visitors upon her box, she answered their sallies with the mechanical ease of long habit. To Ellen's repeated pleas that she should come down to MacDougal Alley and play poker after the concert, she was amiably curt. She had a headache. Ellen knew she detested cards. If Ellen suspected a reason for Anne's refusal, she gave no hint. But her eyes rested upon the emerald pendant maliciously. She is going to meet him afterwards, she mused. The last half of the program met with as vociferous an approval. The Préludium and Allegro of Pugnani, a serenade by Kreisler, some of Brahm's Hungarian Dances were played as only a few can play them. A sonata of Schumann breathed exquisite tears. After the concert was over, there was a clamor for encores. Pale, but exultant, Alexis was generous, and gave of his best. Laughing, dancing tunes, that sent everybody home happy. As the last notes of a Wienawski waltz died away, he left the stage for the last time and the audience rose en masse and made for the exit. A chattering, excited throng, Anne regarded it through grateful tears. "Well, shall we go? Or do you intend to spend all night in the sanctuary?" Gerald held out Anne's chinchilla cape with a mocking glance. "Did the little tin god perform satisfactorily, or was she disappointed?" She slipped into her cape with a nonchalant air. "The little tin god is solid gold all the way through, I'm inclined to believe. But as he has descended from the altar, we might as well move along." "If you are not coming to MacDougal Alley, may I not see you home, Madame?" Caldenas bowed like a dignified cherub. "Oh, no, thank you, Caldenas, please don't trouble. After music like this I prefer to be alone. I'm sure you understand?" She stepped to the railing and picked up her gloves and her opera glasses. As she did so, her eyes swept absently over the dispersing crowd and lighted upon a tall man almost directly beneath her. Something familiar about the cut of his head, the slope of his broad shoulders, penetrated her to the core. She leaned over the railing in sudden apprehension. As if in response, the man turned and their glances flamed to a focus. With a confusion at once sickening and sweet, Anne found herself looking into the eyes of Vittorio Torrigiani. For a second, she felt as if all the blood in her body had seeped to her heart. Then it poured back in a crimson stream from her feet to the roots of her hair. An instinctive desire for flight overcame her. She turned and made for the back of the box, where Gerald was patiently waiting. Vittorio, how ghastly! How could she ever face him? And yet after that flaming interchange of glances, how could she let him go? She returned to the railing and called after the retreating figure softly. From the back of the box Gerald watched her in amazement. "Vittorio?" "Anne!"