The last ten days had been horrible. A kaleidoscopic nightmare with about as much plot and sequence as a Broadway revue. The only consoling factor being the large and sane devotion of Vittorio. Gerald had made an amorous bore of himself, and she had had to snub him. And Ellen, well it had been too detestable of her to recognize Alexis at sight like that. And her way of accepting Anne's explanation, more than irritating. Indulging in one or two lovers a year, she was delighted to catch Anne in what she transparently considered a similar frailty. It had been still more humiliating to have to demand secrecy. But in order to protect Alexis, it had been the only thing to do. And although Ellen's good nature was proverbial, so was her indiscretion. To expect her to keep eternal silence upon her discovery of the return of Alexis Petrovskey, over whom the entire musical world was agog, would be demanding a stoical repression of which the woman was incapable. It was only a question of time before Alexis' secret would be common property. Meanwhile the only thing to do was to keep Ellen in a good humor and watch her like a hawk, which was more difficult than usual, as she was resting between plays and insisted upon attending every show and dance club in New York, until Anne's nerves were frayed and existence had become a monotonous nightmare of jazz and naked shoulders. And the worst of it was that Anne had neither seen nor heard from Alexis since he had disappeared from the house on that ghastly night of his coming. She had returned to her sitting room after the others had all gone, to find it empty except for Regina, whose explanation of his hurried flight had not proved very comforting. Evidently, he had been wounded to the quick, not only by her coldness, but by the entire ignominious situation. Her offer of a tepid friendship had driven him away perhaps forever. Otherwise how could his continued silence be accounted for? He had mistaken hesitation for anger, ridicule as dismissal. Although he must have been exposed for years, ever since adolescence, to that greedy feminine horde who prey upon the matinée idol, he had remained almost virginal. Even marriage had not destroyed a certain quality of innocence, at once boyish and pathetic. A quality which appealed to Anne's disillusionment more strongly than any amount of savoir faire. And she knew instinctively that his love for her, although young as yet, was genuine. Yes, he loved her, and yet, he had found the courage not to break silence for ten days. And she, herself, had permitted matters to drag along, expecting a message from him any moment. But if the silence continued much longer, she would have to do something. Gramercy Park is limited after all, and she would find him if she had to canvass every house on the Square.