But somehow, he failed to thrill her to-night. His virile and rather grave personality was overshadowed by one weaker, yet more compelling. Between her and the dark, high-bred face, intruded a pale, sensitive silhouette; the memory of burning, youthful words. Not accustomed to float upon the tide of emotions, Anne was conscious of a bewildered self-contempt. With a determined effort she shepherded her truant thoughts and turned to the Marchese just as the boy at the piano had banged the last smashing cord of a Sowerby Medley. "Rather relentless, wasn't it?" she laughed above the raucous applause. "Blasphemy, pure and simple," shuddered the Marchese. "Like a visit to the dentist. The buzzer, you know?" He rolled his r's and waved a graphic hand. "It sets my teeth on edge completely. How can you bear it, carissima?" She laughed again. "It's rather amusing, don't you think? Poor Vittorio, are you so old-fashioned as to enjoy a perpetual Celeste Aïda?" "Yes, thank God," he exclaimed fervently. "Do you suppose Orpheus would ever have rescued his Eurydice by playing jazz? No, no, the old guardian beasts were too artistic for that!" She waved her fan gaily. "But nowadays we don't even believe in Hades!" "Ah, but it is always Paradise when with you, Cara Anna," he murmured somewhat bromidically. She looked up into his face. "You are always so good, Vittorio! I--I'm afraid I don't deserve it." She paled a little beneath the earnest gaze of the red-brown eyes. He laughed indulgently beneath his breath. "How is that, don't deserve it? But what has entered into you, dear lady, since your return from the mountain? Have you met a god that you are so uncharacteristically humble?" Failing to meet her eyes, his own became suddenly troubled. Had Anne perhaps indeed received the coup de foudre which he had been dreading all these years? "Do fallen gods dwell upon the mountain-tops?" There was a trace of uncertainty in Anne's smile. Her eyes grew misty as the pale obsessive silhouette rose once more between them. "And if I had?" she challenged. His lids veiled sudden apprehension. "Met a fallen god?" he inquired lightly. She nodded, meeting his searching gaze with an innocent stare. "Then, unconquered lady, beware!" he shook a solemn finger, not at all reassured by the innocent stare. Experience had taught him that even the best of women lie when occasion demands it. "The fallen god is the most dangerous of all. His halo may be crooked, but it dazzles. His poor, stumbling feet of clay inspire that pity which poets claim is akin to love." He finished with a mock heroic flourish. They both laughed aloud.