A flush swept over the ivory face, leaving it paler than before. "Oh, Alexis, must I?" she pleaded. His nod was tyrannical. She returned a few minutes later, swathed in the old-gold saut-de-lit. "Well, here I am," she murmured from the threshold, feeling strangely brazen. His arms leapt out to meet her, then fell disappointedly. "But your hair," he muttered. "You haven't taken down your hair!" "It occurred to me that you might like to do that yourself." She advanced and knelt beside the bed. "Oh, yes--yes!" For an ecstatic moment his trembling hands fumbled with the heavy pins. Then her hair, a rippling shower of perfumed copper, fell between them. With a gasp, Alexis laid his hands in it. Twisting a clinging lock about his fingers, he kissed it wildly. The tears starting beneath closed lids he fell back limply upon the bed. A lump in her throat, Anne shook her head. "Alexis, this is bad for you. Let me go," she whispered in a frightened voice. Beneath the laboring chest his heart leapt up at her like a caged, thing. It made her afraid. "I must go." "No, no," he whispered, "don't leave me, Anne. Let me die like this. It is too beautiful!" With a smothered sob, she laid her wet cheek against his. "No, no, you must live Alexis--you must live--for me." He opened his eyes for the sheer wonder of it. "Anne, do you mean it? Is it a promise?" "Yes," her lips mumbled softly against his unshaven cheek. "It is a promise, my poor Alexis." She unwound the lock from about his fingers. He did not protest, but only gazed up into her face pleadingly, like a sick child. "Must you go, Anne?" She nodded speechlessly. "Will you kiss me?" With a little stifled cry of pity, she sank into the outstretched arms. His scorched lips drank of her cool, soft mouth. She staggered to her feet and stood looking down upon him, encountering the dilated, rapturous gaze. Had she allowed him to become so excited that he might not sleep? She struggled gently to free her hands. "Good-night, Alexis," she insisted. But he retained her hands with a new, convulsive force. "No, no. You mustn't go," he reiterated. "Not now!" He sat up in bed, and releasing her, pointed toward the studio. "My violin--get it for me!" he whispered. She stood aghast, feet glued to the floor. "Your violin?" she muttered stupidly. His quick gesture was full of anger. "Yes, yes. Be quick before the music leaves me again! The violin's in the corner by the piano." Her heart beating in great bounds, she brought him the instrument, and watched with brimming eyes while he placed it beneath his chin, and drew the bow in a great sweep over the strings. It had all come back with new and overwhelming radiance. As he broke into the Canzonetta from Tchaikowsky's concerto, Anne sank on to the foot of the bed with trembling knees.