“Because I would not receive you?  How do you know what happened to me?  How can you judge of my life?  By your own?  There is a vast difference.”

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Orsino almost impatiently.  “I know what you are going to say.  It will be flattering to me of course.  The unattached young man is dangerous to the reputation.  The foreign lady is travelling alone.  There is the foundation of a vaudeville in that!”

“If you must be unjust, at least do not be brutal,” said Maria Consuelo in a low voice, and she turned her face away from him.

“I am evidently placed in the world to offend you, Madame.  Will you believe that I am sorry for it, though I only dimly comprehend my fault?  What did I say?  That you were wise in breaking off my visits, because you are alone here, and because I am young, unmarried and unfortunately a little conspicuous in my native city.  Is it brutal to suggest that a young and beautiful woman has a right not to be compromised?  Can we not talk freely for half an hour, as we used to talk, and then say good-bye and part good friends until you come to Rome again?”

“I wish we could!” There was an accent of sincerity in the tone which pleased Orsino.

“Then begin by forgiving me all my sins, and put them down to ignorance, want of tact, the inexperience of youth or a naturally weak understanding.  But do not call me brutal on such slight provocation.”

“We shall never agree for a long time,” answered Maria Consuelo thoughtfully.

“Why not?”

“Because, as I told you, there is too great a difference between our lives.  Do not answer me as you did before, for I am right.  I began by admitting that I was rude.  If that is not enough I will say more—­I will even ask you to forgive me—­can I do more?”

She spoke so earnestly that Orsino was surprised and almost touched.  Her manner now was even less comprehensible than her repeated refusals to see him had been.

“You have done far too much already,” he said gravely.  “It is mine to ask your forgiveness for much that I have done and said.  I only wish that I understood you better.”

“I am glad you do not,” replied Maria Consuelo, with a sigh which this time was not to be mistaken.  “There is a sadness which it is better not to understand,” she added softly.

“Unless one can help to drive it away.”  He, too, spoke gently, his voice being attracted to the pitch and tone of hers.

“You cannot do that—­and if you could, you would not.”

“Who can tell?”

The charm which he had formerly felt so keenly in her presence but which he had of late so completely forgotten, was beginning to return and he submitted to it with a sense of satisfaction which he had not anticipated.  Though the twilight was coming on, his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness in the room and he saw every change in her pale, expressive face.  She leaned back in her chair with eyes half closed.