“It is very kind of you to have come so soon,” she said, as she took her old accustomed place by the table.

Nothing was changed, excepting that the two or three new books at her elbow were not the same ones which had been there two months earlier.  In one of them was thrust the silver paper-cutter with the jewelled handle, which Orsino had never missed.  He wondered whether there were any reason for the unvarying sameness of these details.

“Of course I came,” he said.  “And as there was time to-day, I came at once.”

He spoke rather coldly, still resenting her former behaviour and expecting that she would immediately say what she wanted of him.  He would promise to execute the commission, whatever it might be, and after ten minutes of conversation he would take his leave.  There was a short pause, during which he looked at her.  She did not seem well.  Her face was pale and her eyes were deep with shadows.  Even her auburn hair had lost something of its gloss.  Yet she did not look older than before, a fact which proved her to be even younger than Orsino had imagined.  Saving the look of fatigue and suffering in her face, Maria Consuelo had changed less than Orsino during the winter, and she realised the fact at a glance.  A determined purpose, hard work, the constant exertion of energy and will, and possibly, too, the giving up to a great extent of gambling and strong drinks, had told in Orsino’s face and manner as a course of training tells upon a lazy athlete.  The bold black eyes had a more quiet glance, the well-marked features had acquired strength and repose, the lean jaw was firmer and seemed more square.  Even physically, Orsino had improved, though the change was undefinable.  Young as he was, something of the power of mature manhood was already coming over his youth.

“You must have thought me very—­rude,” said Maria Consuelo, breaking the silence and speaking with a slight hesitation which Orsino had never noticed before.

“It is not for me to complain, Madame,” he answered.  “You had every right—­”

He stopped short, for he was reluctant to admit that she had been justified in her behaviour towards him.

“Thanks,” she said, with an attempt to laugh.  “It is pleasant to find magnanimous people now and then.  I do not want you to think that I was capricious.  That is all.”

“I certainly do not think that.  You were most consistent.  I called three times and always got the same answer.”

He fancied that he heard her sigh, but she tried to laugh again.

“I am not imaginative,” she answered.  “I daresay you found that out long go.  You have much more imagination than I.”

“It is possible, Madame—­but you have not cared to develop it.”

“What do you mean?”

“What does it matter?  Do you remember what you said when I bade you good-night at the window of your carriage after Del Ferice’s dinner?  You said that you were not angry with me.  I was foolish enough to imagine that you were in earnest.  I came again and again, but you would not see me.  You did not encourage my illusion.”