“It will not be, now.  Your home is not in this house.”

Again she shook her head, turning her face away.

“It must be,” she said.

Orsino was surprised beyond expression by the answer.

“Either you do not know what you are saying, or you do not mean it, dear,” he said.  “Or else you will not understand me.”

“I understand you too well.”

Orsino made her stop and took both her hands, looking down into her eyes.

“You will marry me,” he said.

“I cannot marry you,” she answered.

Her face grew even paler than it had been when they had stood at the window, and so full of pain and sadness that it hurt Orsino to look at it.  But the words she spoke, in her clear, distinct tones, struck him like a blow unawares.  He knew that she loved him, for her love was in every look and gesture, without attempt at concealment.  He believed her to be a good woman.  He was certain that her husband was dead.  He could not understand, and he grew suddenly angry.  An older man would have done worse, or a man less in earnest.

“You must have a reason to give me—­and a good one,” he said gravely.

“I have.”

She turned slowly away and began to walk alone.  He followed her.

“You must tell it,” he said.

“Tell it?  Yes, I will tell it to you.  It is a solemn promise before God, given to a man who died in my arms—­to my husband.  Would you have me break such a vow?”

“Yes.”  Orsino drew a long breath.  The objection seemed insignificant enough compared with the pain it had cost him before it had been explained.

“Such promises are not binding,” he continued, after a moment’s pause.  “Such a promise is made hastily, rashly, without a thought of the consequences.  You have no right to keep it.”

“No right?  Orsino, what are you saying!  Is not an oath an oath, however it is taken?  Is not a vow made ten times more sacred when the one for whom it was taken is gone?  Is there any difference between my promise and that made before the altar by a woman who gives up the world?  Should I be any better, if I broke mine, than the nun who broke hers?”

“You cannot be in earnest?” exclaimed Orsino in a low voice.

Maria Consuelo did not answer.  She went towards the window and looked at the splashing rain.  Orsino stood where he was, watching her.  Suddenly she came back and stood before him.

“We must undo this,” she said.

“What do you mean?” He understood well enough.

“You know.  We must not love each other.  We must undo to-day and forget it.”

“If you can talk so lightly of forgetting, you have little to remember,” answered Orsino almost roughly.

“You have no right to say that.”

“I have the right of a man who loves you.”

“The right to be unjust?”