The door closed behind him with a soft, insistent finality that resounded against Anne's heart like the first clod of earth upon a beloved coffin. She suddenly felt old and inexpressibly weary, as if he had taken her youth away with him forever. She broke into a fit of passionate weeping. CHAPTER XXVI "WILL YOU TAKE ME--" Spring had taken possession of Florence. Its glamour, its dewy freshness, lay over all. The pregnant earth intoxicated with incense of new-born life. On the hillside, Anne's garden was abloom. Hyacinths and lilies, daffodils, jonquils and pansies, bordered the graveled paths. Morning-glories crept along the rose-tinted walls. In intricate designs, orderly brigades of tulips, flung heavenwards their gorgeous cups. Lilac bushes showered fragrance from all sides. The fountain, silent all winter, gushed forth in renewed lilt. In its center, a marble cupid, scarred and darkened with years, dimpled, perennially roguish. On the raised terrace, overlooking the valley, Anne was pouring tea for Vittorio's mother. Petite, grande dame, the short snow-white hair curling tightly all over her head, the Marchesa looked like an Eighteenth Century porcelain. About the delicately wrinkled old throat coiled a necklace of pearls as large and round as peas. A Chinese shawl, youthfully gay and exotic, draped the frail shoulders. She was talking, as usual, with great animation. A little pale in her yellow crèpe gown, Anne leaned back in the Manila chair and listened. A subdued, rather weary, little smile played about her lips. The old lady stopped her chatter and scanned Anne's face affectionately. The large black eyes were very bright and uncannily piercing. "What is the matter, Anne? You aren't a bit like yourself this spring. You seem a little fagged. Are you sure that everything is right with you, dear child?" Anne's smile brightened. "Cara Marchesa, of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be? Am I not always happy to get back to my beloved Florence?" The Marchesa laughed happily, like a reassured child. "You do love it, don't you? You are a true daughter of the Lily like myself. Just think, Anne, I haven't been back to America for almost forty years. And after Vittorio's hectic description of New York, I have no desire to go." "What a naughty lady," Anne laughed. "An unpatriotic little fraud! Nobody would dream you were an old New Yorker, yourself, before your marriage." "No," the Marchesa smiled complacently. "They tell me I am thoroughly Italianized. Frankly, the new America would kill me." Anne laughed again. The Marchesa's little affectation was rather endearing. "I believe it would, Marchesa. You belong in a garden like this, against a background of Tuscan hills." She waved her hand towards the terraced hillsides. The Marchesa nodded, pleased at the delicate compliment. "But Vittorio really likes New York, that is, some aspects of it," she said courteously.