He laughed warily. "I'll confess my expectations did not rise to a tête-à-tête. I feel decidedly flattered." His ironic gaze mocked her politely over the rim of the cocktail. She swept to her feet and led him toward the Gothic archway at the end of the room. "The beautiful solitude will only last during dinner." She smiled at him over a massive shoulder. "After that, the usual horde will probably invade. So we must make the most of our time." Torrigiani's heart leapt upwards once more. So there was to be a crowd after all? Was Anne to make one of them? Or would she disappoint him again, as she had this afternoon? It was the first time she had ever broken an engagement, and his spirit still smarted from the defection. With a lighter step he followed his hostess. Stopping at the threshold of the dining room, he exclaimed with involuntary admiration. The white-washed walls of the small square room were covered with varicolored caricatures of Ellen and the numberless notorieties who formed the horde. They sprawled from paneled baseboard to black oaken ceiling, lurid and ludicrous. Intimate smile and gesture captured in ruthless hyperbole. "I never saw anything so original in my life! It makes one think of a curtain from the Chauve Souris!" The Marchese went close to the wall and scanned it eagerly. Although his knowledge of New York celebrities was limited, he found several whom he recognized. Their names fell off his lips with a small fanfare of triumph. His childish pleasure amused Ellen. She stepped to his side and pointed out several more, including herself as Juliet. "I was dismal in that," she remarked plaintively. "Even the Shakespearian flapper doesn't suit my style." Running her finger along the painted faces, she let it rest upon a gorgeous blonde with Titian hair and a glassy eye and smile. "Who's that?" she queried, with a mocking air. For a moment he looked incredulous. "Not--not Anne?" he begged. The ghastly similitude smote ludicrously. "You have said it. Isn't she dazzling, like a Pepsodent advertisement, or the 'only one out of five' who escaped pyorrhea?" Ellen laughed loudly. "It's blasphemy, pure and simple! And neither simple nor pure. Your artist ought to be hung for libel." They went to the table and he seated her. It was one of those narrow, casket-like affairs with large candles at the head and foot and an artificial spray of diseased-looking orchids sprawling over the center. The Chinese girl, supplemented by an equally-gorgeous twin, passed hors d'oeuvres. He helped himself to truffles in aspic and caught Ellen's gaze resting upon him maliciously from the other end of the table. "Where did you and Anne go last night?" she flashed. He returned her stare blankly. "Why, nowhere, of course," he replied. "Why do you ask?"