When Miss Wilson, frightened, protesting, ran to the door, she stopped her with almost a disdainful gesture. It was her turn to command now. Let professional quibbling wait. The music soared a rapturous, throbbing melody, then quavered suddenly into echoing silence--a silence that vibrated as if from invisible strings. The violin slipped from Alexis' fingers on to the bed. He fell back against his pillows and Anne thought that he had fainted. But it was only a deep sleep into which the overwhelming wave of joy had suddenly plunged him. At least that was what Miss Wilson said, as she tucked the clothes up around the thin shoulders. Rare tears coursing down her cheeks, Anne looked down upon Alexis. She lifted the violin from the bed, and putting it reverently into its case, tiptoed out of the room. As she laid it upon the piano, she sank on to the bench with a little sobbing cry, her face buried in her hands. "Thank God," she sobbed. "Thank God!" Later, back in her alcove, she realized that mortal fatigue had suddenly fallen upon her. She crept wearily into the little day-bed and lay prostrate between marble-cool sheets. Would the tomb feel as cold, she wondered idly. If Alexis recovers I am pledged. Dawn thrust an ashen face against the window and found Anne milk-white, wide-eyed, lying within the brazen mantle of her hair. CHAPTER XV "DUG DEEP INTO MY HEART--" The sun was golden upon the paneled walls of Anne's gay little sitting room. In its uncompromising rays, Torrigiani's face shown drawn. Anne looked at him remorsefully. "Poor Vittorio, I'm not worth all this agony. Indeed, I'm not!" "And I know I should not inflict it upon you." His troubled brown eyes rested upon her. "But if you knew what a horror I have gone through this week! Never in all the years that we have known each other have I doubted you, Anne. In spite of what people said (you yourself know only too well how you have always been talked about) my mother and I never have listened. You have always been my Donna Immaculata and always will remain so. Nobody but yourself could dispel my faith, and even then I should feel there had been a mistake somewhere. But this talk, this terrible talk of Ellen, even your letter doesn't explain it away entirely. I have come to you for the truth. Who is this man with whom you have been staying, Anne? And what is he to you?" "He is Alexis Petrovskey, the violinist, and--and he is nothing to me--at present. He was very ill and I have been taking care of him. That is all." She avoided the earnest, seeking eyes. A vivid crimson stained her cheek. In a tea-gown of peacock blue chiffon with transparent black lace sleeves, she was infinitely desirable. Torrigiani drew his chair closer to hers. He searched her face wistfully. "What do you mean he is nothing to you at present? Don't try to spare me, carissima. I want to know the truth."