“Forgive me, this once!” Orsino entreated in great distress, but not finding any words to express his sense of humiliation.

“You are not eloquent,” she said scornfully.  “You had better go.  Do not come to the dinner this evening, either.  I would rather not see you.  You can easily make an excuse.”

Orsino recovered himself suddenly.

“I will not go away now, and I will not give up the dinner to-night,” he said quietly.

“I cannot make you do either—­but I can leave you,” said Maria Consuelo, with a movement as though she were about to rise from her chair.

“You will not do that,” Orsino answered.

She raised her eyebrows in real or affected surprise at his persistence.

“You seem very sure of yourself,” she said.  “Do not be so sure of me.”

“I am sure that I love you.  Nothing else matters.”  He leaned forward and took her hand, so quickly that she had not time to prevent him.  She tried to draw it away, but he held it fast.

“Let me go!” she cried.  “I will call, if you do not!”

“Call all Rome if you will, to see me ask your forgiveness.  Consuelo—­do not be so hard and cruel—­if you only knew how I love you, you would be sorry for me, you would see how I hate myself, how I despise myself for all this—­”

“You might show a little more feeling,” she said, making a final effort to disengage her hand, and then relinquishing the struggle.

Orsino wondered whether he were really in love with her or not.  Somehow, the words he sought did not rise to his lips, and he was conscious that his speech was not of the same temperature, so to say, as his actions.  There was something in Maria Consuelo’s manner which disturbed him disagreeably, like a cold draught blowing unexpectedly through a warm room.  Still he held her hand and endeavoured to rise to the occasion.

“Consuelo!” he cried in a beseeching tone.  “Do not send me away—­see how I am suffering—­it is so easy for you to say that you forgive!”

She looked at him a moment, and her eyelids drooped suddenly.

“Will you let me go, if I forgive you?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“I forgive you then.  Well?  Do you still hold my hand?”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward and tried to draw her toward him, looking into her eyes.  She yielded a little, and their faces came a little nearer to each other, and still a little nearer.  All at once a deep blush rose in her cheeks, she turned her head away and drew back quickly.

“Not for all the world!” she exclaimed, in a tone that was new to Orsino’s ear.

He tried to take her hand again, but she would not give it.

“No, no!  Go—­you are not to be trusted!” she cried, avoiding him.

“Why are you so unkind?” he asked, almost passionately.

“I have been kind enough for this day,” she answered.  “Pray go—­do not stay any longer—­I may regret it.”