“Thank you,” she said softly and she touched his hand almost caressingly.

But when he would have taken it, she drew back instantly and was once more the woman whom he saw every day, careless, indifferent, pretty.

“Why do you change so quickly?” he asked in a low voice, bending towards her.  “Why do you snatch your hand away?  Are you afraid of me?”

“Why should I be afraid?  Are you dangerous?”

“You are.  You may be fatal, for all I know.”

“How foolish!” she exclaimed, with a quick glance.

“You are Madame d’Aranjuez, now,” he answered.  “We had better change the subject.”

“What do you mean?”

“A moment ago you were Consuelo,” he said boldly.

“Have I given you any right to say that?”

“A little.”

“I am sorry.  I will be more careful.  I am sure I cannot imagine why you should think of me at all, unless when you are talking to me, and then I do not wish to be called by my Christian name.  I assure you, you are never anything in my thoughts but His Excellency Prince Orsino Saracinesca—­with as many titles after that as may belong to you.”

“I have none,” said Orsino.

Her speech irritated him strongly, and the illusion which had been so powerful a few moments earlier all but disappeared.

“Then you advise me to go and find Del Ferice at Monte Citorio,” he observed.

“If you like.”  She laughed.  “There is no mistaking your intention when you mean to change the subject,” she added.

“You made it sufficiently clear that the other was disagreeable to you.”

“I did not mean to do so.”

“Then in heaven’s name, what do you mean, Madame?” he asked, suddenly losing his head in his extreme annoyance.

Maria Consuelo raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked.  “Do you know that it is very rude to speak like that?”

“I cannot help it.  What have I done to-day that you should torment me as you do?”

“I?  I torment you?  My dear friend, you are quite mad.”

“I know I am.  You make me so.”

“Will you tell me how?  What have I done?  What have I said?  You Romans are certainly the most extraordinary people.  It is impossible to please you.  If one laughs, you become tragic.  If one is serious, you grow gay!  I wish I understood you better.”

“You will end by making it impossible for me to understand myself,” said Orsino.  “You say that I am changeable.  Then what are you?”

“Very much the same to-day as yesterday,” said Maria Consuelo calmly.  “And I do not suppose that I shall be very different to-morrow.”

“At least I will take my chance of finding that you are mistaken,” said Orsino, rising suddenly, and standing before her.

“Are you going?” she asked, as though she were surprised.

“Since I cannot please you.”