“If they do, I can make them stop talking.”

“That means that they will talk, does it not?  Would you like that?”

There was a sudden change in her face, with a look of doubt and anxious perplexity.  Orsino saw it and felt that she was putting him upon his honour, and that whatever the doubt might be it had nothing to do with her trust in him.  Six months earlier he would not have hesitated to demonstrate that her fears were empty—­but he felt that six months earlier she might not have yielded to his reasoning.  It was instinctive, but his instinct was not mistaken.

“I think you are right,” he said slowly.  “We should not do it.  I will send my architect with you.”

There was enough regret in the tone to show that he was making a considerable sacrifice.  A little delicacy means more when it comes from a strong man, than when it is the natural expression of an over-refined and somewhat effeminate character.  And Orsino was rapidly developing a strength of which other people were conscious.  Maria Consuelo was pleased, though she, too, was perhaps sorry to give up the projected plan.

“After all,” she said, thoughtlessly, “you can come and see me here, if—­”

She stopped and blushed again, more deeply this time; but she turned her face away and in the half light the change of colour was hardly noticeable.

“You were going to say ‘if you care to see me,’” said Orsino.  “I am glad you did not say it.  It would not have been kind.”

“Yes—­I was going to say that,” she answered quietly.  “But I will not.”

“Thank you.”

“Why do you thank me?”

“For not hurting me.”

“Do you think that I would hurt you willingly, in any way?”

“I would rather not think so.  You did once.”

The words slipped from his lips almost before he had time to realise what they meant.  He was thinking of the night when she had drawn up the carriage window, leaving him standing on the pavement, and of her repeated refusals to see him afterwards.  It seemed long ago, and the hurt had not really been so sharp as he now fancied that it must have been, judging from what he now felt.  She looked at him quickly as though wondering what he would say next.

“I never meant to be unkind,” she said.  “I have often asked myself whether you could say as much.”

It was Orsino’s turn to change colour.  He was young enough for that, and the blood rose slowly in his dark cheeks.  He thought again of their last meeting, and of what he had heard as he shut the door after him on that day.  Perhaps he would have spoken, but Maria Consuelo was sorry for what she had said, and a little ashamed of her weakness, as indeed she had some cause to be, and she immediately turned back to a former point of the conversation, not too far removed from what had last been said.

“You see,” said she, “I was right to ask you whether people would talk.  And I am grateful to you for telling me the truth.  It is a first proof of friendship—­of something better than our old relations.  Will you send me your architect to-morrow, since you are so kind as to offer his help?”