“Ah—­true!” exclaimed Orsino.  “We were forgetting the little commission you spoke of in your note.  I am entirely at your service.”

Maria Consuelo looked at him quickly and her lips trembled.

“Never mind that,” she said unsteadily.  “I will not trouble you.  But I do not want you to go away as—­as you were going.  I feel as though we had been quarrelling.  Perhaps we have.  But let us say we are good friends—­if we only say it.”

Orsino was touched and disturbed.  Her face was very white and her hand trembled visibly as she held it out.  He took it in his own without hesitation.

“If you care for my friendship, you shall have no better friend in the world than I,” he said, simply and naturally.

“Thank you—­good-bye.  I shall leave to-morrow.”

The words were almost broken, as though she were losing control of her voice.  As he closed the door behind him, the sound of a wild and passionate sob came to him through the panel.  He stood still, listening and hesitating.  The truth which would have long been clear to an older or a vainer man, flashed upon him suddenly.  She loved him very much, and he no longer cared for her.  That was the reason why she had behaved so strangely, throwing her pride and dignity to the winds in her desperate attempt to get from him a single kind and affectionate word—­from him, who had poured into her ear so many words of love but two months earlier, and from whom to draw a bare admission of friendship to-day she had almost shed tears.

To go back into the room would be madness; since he did not love her, it would almost be an insult.  He bent his head and walked slowly down the corridor.  He had not gone far, when he was confronted by a small dark figure that stopped the way.  He recognised Maria Consuelo’s elderly maid.

“I beg your pardon, Signore Principe,” said the little black-eyed woman.  “You will allow me to say a few words?  I thank you, Eccellenza.  It is about my Signora, in there, of whom I have charge.”

“Of whom, you have charge?” repeated Orsino, not understanding her.

“Yes—­precisely.  Of course, I am only her maid.  You understand that.  But I have charge of her though she does not know it.  The poor Signora has had terrible trouble during the last few years, and at times—­you understand?  She is a little—­yes—­here.”  She tapped her forehead.  “She is better now.  But in my position I sometimes think it wiser to warn some friend of hers—­in strict confidence.  It sometimes saves some little unnecessary complication, and I was ordered to do so by the doctors we last consulted in Paris.  You will forgive me, Eccellenza, I am sure.”

Orsino stared at the woman for some seconds in blank astonishment.  She smiled in a placid, self-confident way.

“You mean that Madame d’Aranjuez is—­mentally deranged, and that you are her keeper?  It is a little hard to believe, I confess.”