“If you will tell me.”

“I am building a house,” said Orsino, looking at her to see the effect of the announcement.

“A house?” repeated Corona in surprise.  “Where?  Does your father know about it?”

“He said he did not care what I did.”  Orsino spoke rather bitterly.

“That does not sound like him, my dear.  Tell me all about it.  Have you quarrelled with him, or had words together?”

Orsino told his story quickly, concisely and with a frankness he would perhaps not have shown to any one else in the world, for he did not even conceal his connection with Del Ferice.  Corona listened intently, and her deep eyes told him plainly enough that she was interested.  On his part he found an unexpected pleasure in telling her the tale, and he wondered why it had never struck him that his mother might sympathise with his plans and aspirations.  When he had finished, he waited for her first word almost as anxiously as he would have waited for an expression of opinion from Maria Consuelo.

Corona did not speak at once.  She looked into his eyes, smiled, patted his lean brown hand lovingly and smiled again before she spoke.

“I like it,” she said at last.  “I like you to be independent and determined.  You might perhaps have chosen a better man than Del Ferice for your adviser.  He did something once—­well, never mind!  It was long ago and it did us no harm.”

“What did he do, mother?  I know my father wounded him in a duel before you were married—­”

“It was not that.  I would rather not tell you about it—­it can do no good, and after all, it has nothing to do with the present affair.  He would not be so foolish as to do you an injury now.  I know him very well.  He is far too clever for that.”

“He is certainly clever,” said Orsino.  He knew that it would be quite useless to question his mother further after what she had said.  “I am glad that you do not think I have made a mistake in going into this business.”

“No.  I do not think you have made a mistake, and I do not believe that your father will think so either when he knows all about it.”

“He need not have been so icily discouraging,” observed Orsino.

“He is a man, my dear, and I am a woman.  That is the difference.  Was San Giacinto more encouraging than he?  No.  They think alike, and San Giacinto has an immense experience besides.  And yet they are both wrong.  You may succeed, or you may fail—­I hope you will succeed—­but I do not care much for the result.  It is the principle I like, the idea, the independence of the thing.  As I grow old, I think more than I used to do when I was young.”

“How can you talk of growing old!” exclaimed Orsino indignantly.

“I think more,” said Corona again, not heeding him.  “One of my thoughts is that our old restricted life was a mistake for us, and that to keep it up would be a sin for you.  The world used to stand still in those days, and we stood at the head of it, or thought we did.  But it is moving now and you must move with it or you will not only have to give up your place, but you will be left behind altogether.”