regretted, perhaps, having rebuked him so soon, or perhaps she had imagined that he would have made further and more determined efforts to see her.  Possibly, too, she really wished to ask a service of him, and wished to assure herself that she could depend upon him by previously extracting an avowal of his devotion.  It was clear that one of the two had mistaken the other’s character or mood, though it was impossible to say which was the one deceived.

The silence which followed lasted some time, and threatened to become awkward.  Maria Consuelo could not or would not speak and Orsino did not know what to say.  He thought of inquiring what the commission might be with which, according to her note, she had wished to entrust him.  But an instant’s reflection told him that the question would be tactless.  If she had invented the idea as an excuse for seeing him, to mention it would be to force her hand, as card-players say, and he had no intention of doing that.  Even if she really had something to ask of him, he had no right to change the subject so suddenly.  He bethought him of a better question.

“You wrote me that you were going away,” he said quietly.  “But you will come back next winter, will you not, Madame?”

“I do not know,” she answered, vaguely.  Then she started a little, as though understanding his words.  “What am I saying!” she exclaimed.  “Of course I shall come back.”

“Have you been drinking from the Trevi fountain by moonlight, like those mad English?” he asked, with a smile.

“It is not necessary.  I know that I shall come back—­if I am alive.”

“How you say that!  You are as strong as I—­”

“Stronger, perhaps.  But then—­who knows!  The weak ones sometimes last the longest.”

Orsino thought she was growing very sentimental, though as he looked at her he was struck again by the look of suffering in her eyes.  Whatever weakness she felt was visible there, there was nothing in the full, firm little hand, in the strong and easy pose of the head, in the softly coloured ear half hidden by her hair, that could suggest a coming danger to her splendid health.

“Let us take it for granted that you will come back to us,” said Orsino cheerfully.

“Very well, we will take it for granted.  What then?”

The question was so sudden and direct that Orsino fancied there ought to be an evident answer to it.

“What then?” he repeated, after a moment’s hesitation.  “I suppose you will live in these same rooms again, and with your permission, a certain Orsino Saracinesca will visit you from time to time, and be rude, and be sent away into exile for his sins.  And Madame d’Aranjuez will go a great deal to Madame Del Ferice’s and to other ultra-White houses, which will prevent the said Orsino from meeting her in society.  She will also be more beautiful than ever, and the daily papers will describe a certain number of gowns which she will bring with her from Paris, or Vienna, or London, or whatever great capital is the chosen official residence of her great dressmaker.  And the world will not otherwise change very materially in the course of eight months.”