“I like to think that you would, if you knew how,” she said presently.

“Do you not know that I would?”

She glanced quickly at him, and then, instead of answering, rose from her seat and called to her maid through one of the doors, telling her to bring the lamp.  She sat down again, but being conscious that they were liable to interruption, neither of the two spoke.  Maria Consuelo’s fingers played with the silver knife, drawing it out of the book in which it lay and pushing it back again.  At last she took it up and looked closely at the jewelled monogram on the handle.

The maid entered, set the shaded lamp upon the table and glanced sharply at Orsino.  He could not help noticing the look.  In a moment she was gone, and the door closed behind her.  Maria Consuelo looked over her shoulder to see that it had not been left ajar.

“She is a very extraordinary person, that elderly maid of mine,” she said.

“So I should imagine from her face.”

“Yes.  She looked at you as she passed and I saw that you noticed it.  She is my protector.  I never have travelled without her and she watches over me—­as a cat watches a mouse.”

The little laugh that accompanied the words was not one of satisfaction, and the shade of annoyance did not escape Orsino.

“I suppose she is one of those people to whose ways one submits because one cannot live without them,” he observed.

“Yes.  That is it.  That is exactly it,” repeated Maria Consuelo.  “And she is very strongly attached to me,” she added after an instant’s hesitation.  “I do not think she will ever leave me.  In fact we are attached to each other.”

She laughed again as though amused by her own way of stating the relation, and drew the paper-cutter through her hand two or three times.  Orsino’s eyes were oddly fascinated by the flash of the jewels.

“I would like to know the history of that knife,” he said, almost thoughtlessly.

Maria Consuelo started and looked at him, paler even than before.  The question seemed to be a very unexpected one.

“Why?” she asked quickly.

“I always see it on the table or in your hand,” answered Orsino.  “It is associated with you—­I think of it when I think of you.  I always fancy that it has a story.”

“You are right.  It was given to me by a person who loved me.”

“I see—­I was indiscreet.”

“No—­you do not see, my friend.  If you did you—­you would understand many things, and perhaps it is better that you should not know them.”

“Your sadness?  Should I understand that, too?”

“No.  Not that.”

A slight colour rose in her face, and she stretched out her hand to arrange the shade of the lamp, with a gesture long familiar to him.

“We shall end by misunderstanding each other,” she continued in a harder tone.  “Perhaps it will be my fault.  I wish you knew much more about me than you do, but without the necessity of telling you the story.  But that is impossible.  This paper-cutter—­for instance, could tell the tale better than I, for it made people see things which I did not see.”