At first his memory merely brought back the endless details of his acquaintance with her, which had formed the central feature of the first season he had spent without interruption in Rome and in society.  He was surprised at the extreme precision of the pictures evoked, and took pleasure in calling them up when he was alone and unoccupied.  The events themselves had not, perhaps, been all agreeable, yet there was not one which it did not give him some pleasant sensation to remember.  There was a little sadness in some of them, and more than once the sadness was mingled with something of humiliation.  Yet even this last was bearable.  Though he did not realise it, he was quite unable to think of Maria Consuelo without feeling some passing touch of happiness at the thought, for happiness can live with sadness when it is the greater of the two.  He had no desire to analyse these sensations.  Indeed the idea did not enter his mind that they were worth analysing.  His intelligence was better employed with his work, and his reflexions concerning Maria Consuelo chiefly occupied his hours of rest.

The days passed quickly at first and then, as September came they seemed longer, instead of shorter.  He was beginning to wish that the winter would come, that he might again see the woman of whom he was continually thinking.  More than once he thought of writing to her, for he had the address which the maid had given him—­an address in Paris which said nothing, a mere number with the name of a street.  He wondered whether she would answer him, and when he had reached the self-satisfying conviction that she would, he at last wrote a letter, such as any person might write to another.  He told her of the weather, of the dulness of Rome, of his hope that she would return early in the season, and of his own daily occupations.  It was a simply expressed, natural and not at all emotional epistle, not at all like that of a man in the least degree in love with his correspondent, but Orsino felt an odd sensation of pleasure in writing it and was surprised by a little thrill of happiness as he posted it with his own hand.

He did not forget the letter when he had sent it, either, as one forgets the uninteresting letters one is obliged to write out of civility.  He hoped for an answer.  Even if she were in Paris, Maria Consuelo might not, and probably would not, reply by return of post.  And it was not probable that she would be in town at the beginning of September.  Orsino calculated the time necessary to forward the letter from Paris to the most distant part of frequented Europe, allowed her three days for answering and three days more for her letter to reach him.  The interval elapsed, but nothing came.  Then he was irritated, and at last he became anxious.  Either something had happened to Maria Consuelo, or he had somehow unconsciously offended her by what he had written.  He had no copy of the letter and could not recall a single phrase which could have displeased her, but he feared lest something might have crept into it which she might misinterpret.  But this idea was too absurd to be tenable for long, and the conviction grew upon him that she must be ill or in some great trouble.  He was amazed at his own anxiety.