“Would you like to see my certificates, Signor Principe?  Or the written directions of the doctors?  I am sure you are discreet.”

“I have no right to see anything of the kind,” answered Orsino coldly.  “Of course, if you are acting under instructions it is no concern of mine.”

He would have gone forward, but she suddenly produced a small bit of note-paper, neatly folded, and offered it to him.

“I thought you might like to know where we are until we return,” she said, continuing to speak in a very low voice.  “It is the address.”

Orsino made an impatient gesture.  He was on the point of refusing the information which he had not taken the trouble to ask of Maria Consuelo herself.  But he changed his mind and felt in his pocket for something to give the woman.  It seemed the easiest and simplest way of getting rid of her.  The only note he had, chanced to be one of greater value than necessary.

“A thousand thanks, Eccellenza!” whispered the maid, overcome by what she took for an intentional piece of generosity.

Orsino left the hotel as quickly as he could.

“For improbable situations, commend me to the nineteenth century and the society in which we live!” he said to himself as he emerged into the street.

CHAPTER XVI.

It was long before Orsino saw Maria Consuelo again, but the circumstances of his last meeting with her constantly recurred to his mind during the following months.  It is one of the chief characteristics of Rome that it seems to be one of the most central cities in Europe during the winter, whereas in the summer months it appears to be immensely remote from the rest of the civilised world.  From having been the prey of the inexpressible foreigner in his shooting season, it suddenly becomes, and remains during about five months, the happy hunting ground of the silent flea, the buzzing fly and the insinuating mosquito.  The streets are, indeed, still full of people, and long lines of carriages may be seen towards sunset in the Villa Borghesa and in the narrow Corso.  Rome and the Romans are not easily parted as London and London society, for instance.  May comes—­the queen of the months in the south.  June follows.  Southern blood rejoices in the first strong sunshine.  July trudges in at the gates, sweating under the cloudless sky, heavy, slow of foot, oppressed by the breath of the coming dog-star.  Still the nights are cool.  Still, towards sunset, the refreshing breeze sweeps up from the sea and fills the streets.  Then behind closely fastened blinds, the glass windows are opened and the weary hand drops the fan at last.  Then men and women array themselves in the garments of civilisation and sally forth, in carriages, on foot, and in trams, according to the degrees of social importance which provide that in old countries the middle term shall be made to suffer for the priceless treasure