The remainder of the day passed in rapid monotony, fevered, unreal as a dream, which though sweet, borders upon the edge of nightmare. After having watched Alexis sip at a little warm milk, (he was not permitted to talk this time, only to look into her face and hold her hand), she went to a nearby tea-room for lunch. Then strolled briskly about the enclosed park, before returning to the studio, quite like a professional nurse, as she told herself. Alexis was asleep when she came in. She threw herself upon the couch with a book and a cigarette. Gradually, the white-gold noon of December faded into violet. Dusk crept through the curtained windows, stole up the walls, swathing the room in heavy, somber folds until it became a dim cavern. The book slipped from Anne's fingers. She dozed. It was not until after six o'clock that she remembered having invited the Marchese to tea that very afternoon. Conscience-smitten, she rose, and stumbling across the shadowy studio, took up the telephone and called up her house. Regina answered volubly, Yes, the Signor Marchese had been there and left. She had told him the Signora had been called away to see a sick friend and had not returned as yet. Had she, Regina, done right? Yes, Anne supposed she had (with a little private grimace). Had the Marchese seemed hurt? Regina's respectful voice became lugubrious. Yes, he had! He had gone away with an air of great sorrow! Anne sighed. "Please call him up and say that I am writing, Regina, that's a dear!" "Benissimo, all shall be as the Signora declares," came in relieved tones over the wire. Anne hung up the receiver with a fatalistic shrug. Poor Vittorio, he was faring rather badly. Was he not? She would have to make it up to him in the future! CHAPTER XIII BALM