Maria Consuelo did not answer at once.  She glanced at him, looked down, and then her eyes met his again.

“Do you think that you are the kind of man a woman chooses for her friend?” she asked at length, with a faint smile.

“I have not thought of the matter—­”

“But you should—­before offering your friendship.”

“Why?  If I feel a sincere sympathy for your trouble, if I am—­” he hesitated, weighing his words—­“if I am personally attached to you, why can I not help you?  I am honest, and in earnest.  May I say as much as that of myself?”

“I believe you are.”

“Then I cannot see that I am not the sort of man whom a woman might take for a friend when a better is not at hand.”

“And do you believe in friendship, Don Orsino?” asked Maria Consuelo quietly.

“I have heard it said that it is not wise to disbelieve anything nowadays,” answered Orsino.

“True—­and the word ‘friend’ has such a pretty sound!” She laughed, for the first time since he had entered the room.

“Then it is you who are the unbeliever, Madame.  Is not that a sign that you need no friend at all, and that your questions are not seriously meant?”

“Perhaps.  Who knows?”

“Do you know, yourself?”

“No.”  Again she laughed a little, and then grew suddenly grave.

“I never knew a woman who needed a friend more urgently than you do,” said Orsino.  “I do not in the least understand your position.  The little you have told me makes it clear enough that there have been and still are unusual circumstances in your life.  One thing I see.  That woman whom you call your maid is forced upon you against your will, to watch you, and is privileged to tell lies about you which may do you a great injury.  I do not ask why you are obliged to suffer her presence, but I see that you must, and I guess that you hate it.  Would it be an act of friendship to free you from her or not?”

“At present it would not be an act of friendship,” answered Maria Consuelo, thoughtfully.

“That is very strange.  Do you mean to say that you submit voluntarily—­”

“The woman is a condition imposed upon me.  I cannot tell you more.”

“And no friend, no friendly help can change the condition, I suppose.”

“I did not say that.  But such help is beyond your power, Don Orsino,” she added turning towards him rather suddenly.  “Let us not talk of this any more.  Believe me, nothing can be done.  You have sometimes acted strangely with me, but I really think you would help me if you could.  Let that be the state of our acquaintance.  You are willing, and I believe that you are.  Nothing more.  Let that be our compact.  But you can perhaps help me in another way—­a smaller way.  I want a habitation of some kind for the winter, for I am tired of camping out in hotels.  You who know your own city so well can name some person who will undertake the matter.”