Soon after twelve o’clock, Contini came back, hot and radiant.  Maria Consuelo had refused the water ice, but the charm of her manner had repaid the architect for the disappointment.  Orsino asked whether she had decided upon any dwelling.

“She has taken the apartment in the Palazzo Barberini,” answered Contini.  “I suppose she will bring her family in the autumn.”

“Her family?  She has none.  She is alone.”

“Alone in that place!  How rich she must be!” Contini found the remains of a cigar somewhere and lighted it thoughtfully.

“I do not know whether she is rich or not,” said Orsino.  “I never thought about it.”

He began to work at his books again, while Contini sat down and fanned himself with a bundle of papers.

“She admires you very much, Don Orsino,” said the latter, after a pause.  Orsino looked up sharply.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“I mean that she talked of nothing but you, and in the most flattering way.”

In the oddly close intimacy which had grown up between the two men it did not seem strange that Orsino should smile at speeches which he would not have liked if they had come from any one but the poor architect.

“What did she say?” he asked with idle curiosity.

“She said it was wonderful to think what you had done.  That of all the Roman princes you were the only one who had energy and character enough to throw over the old prejudices and take an occupation.  That it was all the more creditable because you had done it from moral reasons and not out of necessity or love of money.  And she said a great many other things of the same kind.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Orsino, looking at the wall opposite.

“It is a pity she is a widow,” observed Contini.

“Why?”

“She would make such a beautiful princess.”

“You must be mad, Contini!” exclaimed Orsino, half-pleased and half-irritated.  “Do not talk of such follies.”

“All well!  Forgive me,” answered the architect a little humbly.  “I am not you, you know, and my head is not yours—­nor my name—­nor my heart either.”

Contini sighed, puffed at his cigar and took up some papers.  He was already a little in love with Maria Consuelo, and the idea that any man might marry her if he pleased, but would not, was incomprehensible to him.

The day wore on.  Orsino finished his work as thoroughly as though he had been a paid clerk, put everything in order and went away.  Late in the afternoon he went to see Maria Consuelo.  He knew that she would usually be already out at that hour, and he fancied that he was leaving something to chance in the matter of finding her, though an unacknowledged instinct told him that she would stay at home after the fatigue of the morning.

“We shall not be interrupted by Count Spicca to-day,” she said, as he sat down beside her.

In spite of what he knew, the hard tone of her voice roused again in Orsino that feeling of pity for the old man which he had felt on the previous day.