For a long time neither spoke again.  Orsino, indeed, had nothing to say at first, for nothing he could say could reasonably be supposed to be of any use.  He had learned the existence of something like a tragedy in Maria Consuelo’s life, and he seemed to be learning the first lesson of friendship, which teaches sympathy.  It was not an occasion for making insignificant phrases expressing his regret at her loss, and the language he needed in order to say what he meant was unfamiliar to his lips.  He was silent, therefore, but his young face was grave and thoughtful, and his eyes sought hers from time to time as though trying to discover and forestall her wishes.  At last she glanced at him quickly, then looked down, and at last spoke to him.

“You will not make me regret having told you this—­will you?” she asked.

“No.  I promise you that.”

So far as Orsino could understand the words meant very little.  He was not very communicative, as a rule, and would certainly not tell what he had heard, so that the promise was easily given and easy to keep.  If he did not break it, he did not see that she could have any further cause for regretting her confidence in him.  Nevertheless, by way of reassuring her, he thought it best to repeat what he had said in different words.

“You may be quite sure that whatever you choose to tell me is in safe keeping,” he said.  “And you may be sure, too, that if it is in my power to do you a service of any kind, you will find me ready, and more than ready, to help you.”

“Thank you,” she answered, looking earnestly at him.

“Whether the matter be small or great,” he added, meeting her eyes.

Perhaps she expected to find more curiosity on his part, and fancied that he would ask some further question.  He did not understand the meaning of her look.

“I believe you,” she said at last.  “I am too much in need of a friend to doubt you.”

“You have found one.”

“I do not know.  I am not sure.  There are other things—­” she stopped suddenly and looked away.

“What other things?”

But Maria Consuelo did not answer.  Orsino knew that she was thinking of all that had once passed between them.  He wondered whether, if he led the way, she would press him as she had done at their last meeting.  If she did, he wondered what he should say.  He had been very cold then, far colder than he was now.  He now felt drawn to her, as in the first days of their acquaintance.  He felt always that he was on the point of understanding her, and yet that he was waiting, for something which should help him to pass that point.

“What other things?” he asked, repeating his question.  “Do you mean that there are reasons which may prevent me from being a good friend of yours?”

“I am afraid there are.  I do not know.”

“I think you are mistaken, Madame.  Will you name some of those reasons—­or even one?”