Meanwhile, what had happened to him? Had her defection driven him back to the old misery and despair? Was he lonely and hag-ridden, in a music-less hell that might peradventure drive him to suicide? Or had he perhaps come to his senses and returned to his wife in sheer cynical weariness? Of course, that would be the best thing that could happen to him and she, Anne, sincerely tried to hope that it had. Probably at this moment, while she was worrying herself almost sick over him, he was partaking of the fatted calf at the family board. The thought set her suddenly upon her feet. She stood and looked down into the flames moodily. Why had she permitted herself to get into such a state of nerves? Why worry about a neurotic, love-sick boy whom, a few weeks ago, she had never even met? Why not take the whole thing as an incident, interesting no doubt while it lasted, but now closed? She shrugged. She knew all the time that she was desperately unhappy, and would remain so until she was sure of Alexis' whereabouts. Meanwhile, life must go on, and if she did not dress immediately she would hold up the whole party. While she had been mooning over Alexis like a love-sick school-girl, the time had flown by relentlessly, and soon poor Vittorio would be back to take up the weary grind once more. A smile of self-ridicule upon her lips, she went into the adjoining bedroom and submitted herself to the impatient ministrations of Regina. "I know I am late," she admitted impenitently. "But I had my bath before tea and there isn't really much to do." She slipped out of the tea-gown and handed it to the woman. "I know just how cross you are. Just how much you hate New York, and all the rest of it. So do cheer up, there's a dear!" Sitting on the edge of the white bed, she held out a long, slim leg which Regina vested with stocking and slipper the ripe hue of old gold. "The signora will be sick if she goes on like this!" muttered the old woman. "And the poor Signor Marchese looks like death!" Anne rose and looked at herself in the cheval-glass with a laugh. Slim and boyish in her silken slip-ons, gold stockings glimmering on rounded calves, she was particularly alluring. How absurd to indulge in melodramatics when one was looking exactly like a glove-silk undervest advertisement in Vogue or Harper's Bazaar! "Poor Regina, how she loves her Marchese," she teased. She threw a négligée over polished shoulders and sat down before the gay little toilet table. "Do my hair as quickly as you can," she added. "The poor man will be back for me within the half hour." Regina sighed pleasurably. "He's a gallantuomo," she murmured. Pulling out the large shell pins, she allowed Anne's hair to fall over her shoulders in a copper cascade. "Is the signora thinking of returning to Florence before Christmas this year?" she hinted, brush in hand. Anne laughed again.