Since then, before seeing Alexis, she had had time to think. She had lain awake all night over her problem. In spite of the frightful wrench to spirit and pride, she had come to the same inevitable conclusion as the day before. Because of the child that was coming she would sacrifice her own desires and return to Alexis' mother. However, she allowed herself one reservation, of which she knew the old priest would not approve, but to which pride obstinately clung. Neither Alexis nor his mother should be told of her "hopes" as the sister so chastely put it, until it was no longer possible to conceal it from anyone. As soon as she heard that Alexis was coming to the hospital, she had made both the doctor and the nurse promise solemnly not to divulge her secret. A request acceded to with small reluctance, as similar whims constantly arose within their province. How devoutly she hoped they were keeping their word! For probably at this very moment Alexis was interviewing the doctor on her behalf and making arrangements for the return to the apartment. That return which she dreaded from the bottom of her soul. That apartment where her aunt, Mme. Petrovskey held sway and was waiting to encompass her with the cold and bland silence which was hers habitually, and which, characteristically, she had not broken since Claire's disappearance. She had not dared to ask Alexis if he would be there, too. She hardly knew whether she desired it. An appalling weariness warned her that she would be unable to cope with the emotions his presence involved. Yet without him life was void, the future a terrifying blank. Too spent for tears, she turned her leaden body and burying her face against the pillow, sank into a lethargy as deep and almost as peaceful as the elusive death which had failed her. CHAPTER IX YOUTH'S TEMPEST Anne looked up into the Marchese's face with a quizzical smile. Beneath the staccato uproar of piano and laughter his voice flowed liquid and unbroken. Interesting and even thrilling as were his recent adventures, somehow his account lacked the usual fire. It was difficult to focus her attention. The fervid charm of their intercourse seemed to have vanished. Anne's smile stiffened upon her lips. Her eyes wandered rather vaguely about the crowded room. It was the usual olla podrida of mixed professions and nationalities that had gathered in her drawing room for the last four or five years. One or two genuine artists and musicians, a writer of indubitable distinction, an actress of greater renown than ability, several clever pretenders, and the man at her side, whose fame as an archæologist, stood undisputed, and whose dignity and charm were a byword on two continents. A man whose friendship had gratified her for years and whose attentions had more than satisfied a fastidious and pampered vanity.