Maria Consuelo was silent, still watching him.

“You have nothing to say,” he continued, stopping and standing before her.  “There is nothing to be said.  A man or woman who does not love is in an abnormal state.  When he or she falls in love it is a recovery.  One may recover so long as the heart has enough vitality.  Admit it—­for you must.  It proves that any properly constituted person may love twice, at least.”

“There is an idea of faithlessness in it, nevertheless,” said Maria Consuelo, thoughtfully.  “Or if it is not faithless, it is fickle.  It is not the same to oneself to love twice.  One respects oneself less.”

“I cannot believe that.”

“We all ought to believe it.  Take a case as an instance.  A woman loves a man with all her heart, to the point of sacrificing very much for him.  He loves her in the same way.  In spite of the strongest opposition, they agree to be married.  On the very day of the marriage he is taken from her—­for ever—­loving her as he has always loved her, and as he would always have loved her had he lived.  What would such a woman feel, if she found herself forgetting such a love as that after two or three years, for another man?  Do you think she would respect herself more or less?  Do you think she would have the right to call herself a faithful woman?”

Orsino was silent for a moment, seeing that she meant herself by the example.  She, indeed, had only told him that her husband had been killed, but Spicca had once said of her that she had been married to a man who had never been her husband.

“A memory is one thing—­real life is quite another,” said Orsino at last, resuming his walk.

“And to be faithful cannot possibly mean to be faithless,” answered Maria Consuelo in a low voice.

She rose and went to one of the windows.  She must have wished to hide her face, for the outer blinds and the glass casement were both shut and she could see nothing but the green light that struck the painted wood.  Orsino went to her side.

“Shall I open the window?” he asked in a constrained voice.

“No—­not yet.  I thought I could see out.”

Still she stood where she was, her face almost touching the pane, one small white hand resting upon the glass, the fingers moving restlessly.

“You meant yourself, just now,” said Orsino softly.

She neither spoke nor moved, but her face grew pale.  Then he fancied that there was a hardly perceptible movement of her head, the merest shade of an inclination.  He leaned a little towards her, resting against the marble sill of the window.

“And you meant something more—­” he began to say.  Then he stopped short.

His heart was beating hard and the hot blood throbbed in his temples, his lips closed tightly and his breathing was audible.

Maria Consuelo turned her head, glanced at him quickly and instantly looked back at the smooth glass before her and at the green light on the shutters without.  He was scarcely conscious that she had moved.  In love, as in a storm at sea, matters grow very grave in a few moments.