“Since you will not.”

“I do not know how.”

“Be yourself—­the same that you always are.  You are affecting to be some one else, to-day.”

“I fancy it is the other way,” answered Orsino, with more truth than he really owned to himself.

“Then I prefer the affectation to the reality.”

“As you will, Madame.  Good evening.”

He crossed the room to go out.  She called him back.

“Don Orsino!”

He turned sharply round.

“Madame?”

Seeing that he did not move, she rose and went to him.  He looked down into her face and saw that it was changed again.

“Are you really angry?” she asked.  There was something girlish in the way she asked the question, and, for a moment, in her whole manner.

Orsino could not help smiling.  But he said nothing.

“No, you are not,” she continued.  “I can see it.  Do you know?  I am very glad.  It was foolish of me to tease you.  You will forgive me?  This once?”

“If you will give me warning the next time.”  He found that he was looking into her eyes.

“What is the use of warning?” she asked.

They were very close together, and there was a moment’s silence.  Suddenly Orsino forgot everything and bent down, clasping her in his arms and kissing her again and again.  It was brutal, rough, senseless, but he could not help it.

Maria Consuelo uttered a short, sharp cry, more of surprise, perhaps, than of horror.  To Orsino’s amazement and confusion her voice was immediately answered by another, which was that of the dark and usually silent maid, whom he had seen once or twice.  The woman ran into the room, terrified by the cry she had heard.

“Madame felt faint in crossing the room, and was falling when I caught her,” said Orsino, with a coolness that did him credit.

And, in fact, Maria Consuelo closed her eyes as he let her sink into the nearest chair.  The maid fell on her knees beside her mistress and began chafing her hands.

“The poor Signora!” she exclaimed.  “She should never be left alone!  She has not been herself since the poor Signore died.  You had better leave us, sir—­I will put her to bed when she revives.  It often happens—­pray do not be anxious!”

Orsino picked up his hat and left the room.

“Oh—­it often happens, does it?” he said to himself as he closed the door softly behind him and walked down the corridor of the hotel.

He was more amazed at his own boldness than he cared to own.  He had not supposed that scenes of this description produced themselves so very unexpectedly, and, as it were, without any fixed intention on the part of the chief actor.  He remembered that he had been very angry with Madame d’Aranjuez, that she had spoken half a dozen words, and that he had felt an irresistible impulse to kiss her.  He had done so, and he thought with considerable trepidation