“My staying?”

“No—­my kindness.  And do not come again for the present.  I would rather see you at Del Ferice’s than here.”

Orsino was quite unable to understand her behaviour, and an older and more experienced man might have been almost as much puzzled as he.  A long silence followed, during which he sat quite still and she looked steadily at the cover of a book which lay on the table.

“Please go,” she said at last, in a voice which was not unkind.

Orsino rose from his seat and prepared to obey her, reluctantly enough and feeling that he was out of tune with himself and with everything.

“Will you not even tell me why you send me away?” he asked.

“Because I wish to be alone,” she answered.  “Good-bye.”

She did not look up as he left the room, and when he was gone she did not move from her place, but sat as she had sat before, staring at the yellow cover of the novel on the table.

Orsino went home in a very unsettled frame of mind, and was surprised to find that the lighted streets looked less bright and cheerful than on the previous evening, and his own immediate prospects far less pleasing.  He was angry with himself for having been so foolish as to make his visit to Maria Consuelo a mere appointment with Del Ferice, and he was surprised beyond measure to find himself suddenly engaged in a social acquaintance with the latter, when he had only meant to enter into relations of business with him.  Yet it did not occur to him that Del Ferice had in any way entrapped him into accepting the invitation.  Del Ferice had saved him from a very awkward situation.  Why?  Because Del Ferice had seen the gesture Maria Consuelo had made, and had understood it, and wished to give Orsino another opportunity of discussing his project.  But if Del Ferice had seen the quick sign, he had probably interpreted it in a way compromising to Madame d’Aranjuez.  This was serious, though it was assuredly not Orsino’s fault if she compromised herself.  She might have let him go without question, and since an explanation of some sort was necessary she might have waited until the next day to demand it of him.  He resented what she had done, and yet within the last quarter of an hour, he had been making a declaration of love to her.  He was further conscious that the said declaration had been wholly lacking in spirit, in passion and even in eloquence.  He probably did not love her after all, and with an attempt at his favourite indifference he tried to laugh at himself.

But the effort was not successful, and he felt something approaching to pain as he realised that there was nothing to laugh at.  He remembered her eyes and her face and the tones of her voice, and he imagined that if he could turn back now and see her again, he could say in one breath such things as would move a statue to kisses.  The very phrases rose to his lips and he repeated them to himself as he walked along.