Anne shook her head with a dry little laugh. "Don't try to spare my feelings. He hated it. He was horribly bored with us all." The Marchesa's eyes twinkled. She shook a coquettish finger slightly crooked from rheumatism in Anne's face. "Not bored with you, my dear. You cannot make me believe that. You are the apple of his eye." Anne helped herself hastily to a buttered scone. "I'm afraid the apple stuck in his throat more than once," she murmured with a nervous laugh. The old woman looked at her wistfully. No, certainly, Anne was not herself. What could be the matter? Some love affair, perhaps? "When are you going to make us both happy?" The old voice was very gentle. "Do you still want me?" With averted head Anne fingered the teacups. "More than ever, sweet child! I cannot bear to think of poor Vittorio spending the rest of his life pottering about musty old ruins. And that is what he will do if you won't have him, my dear. He refuses to look at any one else!" "But he loves ruins, doesn't he?" Anne teased, her equanimity somewhat restored. The Marchesa laughed ruefully. "Yes, he seems to have an inextinguishable fondness for antiques, including his mother." "Perhaps then, if I wait a little longer, I shall acquire more value in his eyes, become more mellow, you know." "Wicked child! You speak of yourself as if you were a cheese!" "Speaking of cheese, that reminds me. I golfed with the Principe this morning. You know he is in very bad odor here at present? I felt quite devilish being seen with him." "Some new scandal?" The black eyes twinkled. Anne shrugged. "A cinema actress, I believe." She lighted a cigarette and puffed at it delicately. "He had the temerity to propose to me again." The Marchesa's foot tapped upon the bricks. "Impoverished old wretch! I can't bear to have you exposed to such things, Anne. Why don't you marry us, and protect yourself against these adventurers?" Secure in her own immense fortune, the Marchesa serenely felt her son to be above suspicion. Anne pretended to be immensely shocked. "The idea of calling the Principe an adventurer. Why, his one foot in the grave would break off if he could hear you. He is count of this, marchese of that," she flicked her ashes flippantly, "and a Spanish Grandee to boot. I ought to know, he has enumerated his titles to me often enough." The Marchesa cackled merrily. "I suggest his getting out a catalogue for the benefit of American heiresses. Old braggart! Why doesn't he ask me? I'm nearer his age!" "He is going to invite you to his tennis tea on Sunday," giggled Anne. "Perhaps you can catch him on the rebound." "Never say die! If I can't have a daughter-in-law, I might as well get me a husband!" The Marchesa rose to her feet rheumatically. "But I must limp along now dear. The sun is beginning to sink behind the Duomo and my old bones will creak if I linger." Anne moved towards her quickly. "I hate to have you go, dear lady."