“Please tell the coachman to take me to the Via Nazionale,” she said quickly.

“What number?”

“Never mind—­he knows—­I have forgotten.  Good-night.”

She tried to draw up the window, but Orsino held his hand on it.

“May I come to-morrow?” he asked again.

“No.”

“Are you angry with me still?”

“No.”

“Then why—­”

“Let me shut the window.  Take your hand away.”

Her voice was very imperative in the dark.  Orsino relinquished his hold on the frame, and the pane ran up suddenly into its place with a rattling noise.  There was obviously nothing more to be said.

“Via Nazionale.  The Signora says you know the house,” he called to the driver.

The man looked surprised, shrugged his shoulders after the manner of livery stable coachmen and drove slowly off in the direction indicated.  Orsino stood looking after the carriage and a few seconds later he saw that the man drew rein and bent down to the front window as though asking for orders.  Orsino thought he heard Maria Consuelo’s voice, answering the question, but he could not distinguish what she said, and the brougham drove on at once without taking a new direction.

He was curious to know whither she was going, and the idea of following her suggested itself but he instantly dismissed it, partly because it seemed unworthy and partly, perhaps, because he was on foot, and no cab was passing within hail.

Orsino was very much puzzled.  During the dinner she had behaved with her usual cordiality but as soon as they were alone she spoke and acted as she had done in the afternoon.  Orsino turned away and walked across the deserted square.  He was greatly disturbed, for he felt a sense of humiliation and disappointment quite new to him.  Young as he was, he had been accustomed already to a degree of consideration very different from that which Maria Consuelo thought fit to bestow, and it was certainly the first time in his life that a door—­even the door of a carriage—­had been shut in his face without ceremony.  What would have been an unpardonable insult, coming from a man, was at least an indignity when it came from a woman.  As Orsino walked along, his wrath rose, and he wondered why he had not been angry at once.

“Very well,” he said to himself.  “She says she does not want me.  I will take her at her word and I will not go to see her any more.  We shall see what happens.  She will find out that I am not a child, as she was good enough to call me to-day, and that I am not in the habit of having windows put up in my face.  I have much more serious business on hand than making love to Madame d’Aranjuez.”