As it was, she scarcely remembered that they had exchanged more than a few phrases. Yet of course that could have been hardly possible. She recalled asking him how he had enjoyed his stay in Mexico, and scarcely listening for the reply. She had a vague impression that he had found it interesting. He had spoken at some length about a friend of his, a Spaniard, whose diggings he had visited near Mexico City, where the remains of an ancient civilization, entirely concealed by lava, were in the process of discovery. Bodies had been found, almost perfectly preserved in the positions in which the fiery death had caught them. The very utensils in their hands were unbroken. Some of the bodies were being placed in glass cases, to be exhibited in the Museum in Mexico City. Anne had laughed foolishly at this point, making some banal remark about how embarrassing it must have been for the poor creatures, as if one were caught with one's hair in curl-papers. But her ridiculous laughter had helped, if only momentarily, to break through the crust of constraint which lay upon them both like the coating of lava upon the little city he was telling her of. Vittorio had turned to her abruptly, and asked if she were happy. The tremor in his voice had startled her. "Is any one ever happy?" she had evaded. But he had insisted upon knowing the truth. "For God's sake, tell me Anne. It can't hurt me half as much as to feel that you are suffering or have made a frightful mistake. I don't think I could quite bear that!" "I suppose I am happy," her reply had been somewhat uncertain. "I didn't expect to be happy, you know." But her answer had not pleased him. Perhaps he had considered it both priggish and insincere. For his voice was incredulous and slightly mocking as he had proceeded. "Oh, Anne, admit it. You are madly in love with him? What woman wouldn't be? He is a genius. This evening proved that if nothing else. As I listened to him, chills coursed up my spine. Chills of admiration, and yes, I might as well own up to it, chills of hatred and of jealousy. I am a man, and I suffered. He is too beautiful, Anne. He reminds me of a small statuette I once dug up near Messina, and which was since destroyed in the earthquake. Of course you love him, Anne. It goes without saying. And I prefer to have you honest about it." His tone had both distressed and annoyed her. Why did men always take things for granted? Even Vittorio, who had known her for the last ten years could not seem to understand the many-faceted urge which impelled her actions. "But Vittorio, I don't think I do love him," she had remonstrated patiently. "That is, I'm not in love with him. He is really more like a child than a man in some ways. A fascinating, precocious child, of course, but sometimes a very naughty one!" And then she was sorry to have admitted so much, for she sensed that her words had resounded upon Vittorio's heart like a blow.