Orsino laughed lightly, not at his own speech, which he had constructed rather clumsily under the spur of necessity, but in the hope that she would laugh, too, and begin to talk more carelessly.  But Maria Consuelo was evidently not inclined for anything but the most serious view of the world, past, present and future.

“Yes,” she answered gravely.  “I daresay you are right.  One comes, one shows one’s clothes, and one goes away again—­and that is all.  It would be very much the same if one did not come.  It is a great mistake to think oneself necessary to any one.  Only things are necessary—­food, money and something to talk about.”

“You might add friends to the list,” said Orsino, who was afraid of being called brutal again if he did not make some mild remonstrance to such a sweeping assertion.

“Friends are included under the head of ‘something to talk about,’” answered Maria Consuelo.

“That is an encouraging view.”

“Like all views one gets by experience.”

“You grow more and more bitter.”

“Does the world grow sweeter as one grows older?”

“Neither you nor I have lived long enough to know,” answered Orsino.

“Facts make life long—­not years.”

“So long as they leave no sign of age, what does it matter?”

“I do not care for that sort of flattery.”

“Because it is not flattery at all.  You know the truth too well.  I am not ingenious enough to flatter you, Madame.  Perfection is not flattered when it is called perfect.”

“It is at all events impossible to exaggerate better than you can,” answered Maria Consuelo, laughing at last at the overwhelming compliment.  “Where did you learn that?”

“At your feet, Madame.  The contemplation of great masterpieces enlarges the intelligence and deepens the power of expression.”

“And I am a masterpiece—­of what?  Of art?  Of caprice?  Of consistency?”

“Of nature,” answered Orsino promptly.

Again Maria Consuelo laughed a little, at the mere quickness of the answer.  Orsino was delighted with himself, for he fancied he was leading her rapidly away from the dangerous ground upon which she had been trying to force him.  But her next words showed him that he had not yet succeeded.

“Who will make me laugh during all these months!” she exclaimed with a little sadness.

Orsino thought she was strangely obstinate, and wondered what she would say next.

“Dear me, Madame,” he said, “if you are so kind as to laugh at my poor wit, you will not have to seek far to find some one to amuse you better!”

He knew how to put on an expression of perfect simplicity when he pleased, and Maria Consuelo looked at him, trying to be sure whether he were in earnest or not.  But his face baffled her.

“You are too modest,” she said.

“Do you think it is a defect?  Shall I cultivate a little more assurance of manner?” he asked, very innocently.