“After it was yours?”

“Yes.  After it was mine.”

“It pleases you to be very mysterious,” said Orsino with a smile.

“Oh no!  It does not please me at all,” she answered, turning her face away again.  “And least of all with you—­my friend.”

“Why least with me?”

“Because you are the first to misunderstand.  You cannot help it.  I do not blame you.”

“If you would let me be your friend, as you call me, it would be better for us both.”

He spoke as he had assuredly not meant to speak when he had entered the room, and with a feeling that surprised himself far more than his hearer.  Maria Consuelo turned sharply upon him.

“Have you acted like a friend towards me?” she asked.

“I have tried to,” he answered, with more presence of mind than truth.

Her tawny eyes suddenly lightened.

“That is not true.  Be truthful!  How have you acted, how have you spoken with me?  Are you ashamed to answer?”

Orsino raised his head rather haughtily, and met her glance, wondering whether any man had ever been forced into such a strange position before.  But though her eyes were bright, their look was neither cold nor defiant.

“You know the answer,” he said.  “I spoke and acted as though I loved you, Madame, but since you dismissed me so very summarily, I do not see why you wish me to say so.”

“And you, Don Orsino, have you ever been loved—­loved in earnest—­by any woman?”

“That is a very strange question, Madame.”

“I am discreet.  You may answer it safely.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“But you will not?  No—­that is your right.  But it would be kind of you—­I should be grateful if you would tell me—­has any woman ever loved you dearly?”

Orsino laughed, almost in spite of himself.  He had little false pride.

“It is humiliating, Madame.  But since you ask the question and require a categorical answer, I will make my confession.  I have never been loved.  But you will observe, as an extenuating circumstance, that I am young.  I do not give up all hope.”

“No—­you need not,” said Maria Consuelo in a low voice, and again she moved the shade of the lamp.

Though Orsino was by no means fatuous, he must have been blind if he had not seen by this time that Madame d’Aranjuez was doing her best to make him speak as he had formerly spoken to her, and to force him into a declaration of love.  He saw it, indeed, and wondered; but although he felt her charm upon him, from time to time, he resolved that nothing should induce him to relax even so far as he had done already more than once during the interview.  She had placed him in a foolish position once before, and he would not expose himself to being made ridiculous again, in her eyes or his.  He could not discover what intention she had in trying to lead him back to her, but he attributed it to her vanity.  She