Gradually the conviction reasserted itself that he could fight his way through unaided, and his spirits rose as he approached the more crowded quarters of the city on his way to the hotel where Maria Consuelo was stopping.  Not even the yells of the newsboys affected him, as they announced the failure of the great contractor Ronco and offered, in a second edition, a complete account of the bankruptcy.  It struck him indeed that before long the same brazen voices might be screaming out the news that Andrea Contini and Company had come to grief.  But the idea lent a sense of danger to the situation which Orsino did not find unpleasant.  The greater the difficulty the greater the merit in overcoming it, and the greater therefore the admiration he should get from the woman he loved.  His position was certainly an odd one, and many men would not have felt the excitement which he experienced.  The financial side of the question was strangely indifferent to him, who knew himself backed by the great fortune of his family, and believed that his ultimate loss could only be the small sum with which he had begun his operations.  But the moral risk seemed enormous and grew in importance as he thought of it.

He found Maria Consuelo looking pale and weary.  She evidently had no intention of going out that day, for she wore a morning gown and was established upon a lounge with books and flowers beside her as though she did not mean to move.  She was not reading, however.  Orsino was startled by the sadness in her face.

She looked fixedly into his eyes as she gave him her hand, and he sat down beside her.

“I am glad you are come,” she said at last, in a low voice.  “I have been hoping all day that you would come early.”

“I would have come this morning if I had dared,” answered Orsino.

She looked at him again, and smiled faintly.

“I have a great deal to say to you,” she began.  Then she hesitated as though uncertain where to begin.

“And I—­” Orsino tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it.

“Yes, but do not say it.  At least, not now.”

“Why not, dear one?  May I not tell you how I love you?  What is it, love?  You are so sad to-day.  Has anything happened?”

His voice grew soft and tender as he spoke, bending to her ear.  She pushed him gently back.

“You know what has happened,” she answered.  “It is no wonder that I am sad.”

“I do not understand you, dear.  Tell me what it is.”

“I told you too much yesterday—­”

“Too much?”

“Far too much.”

“Are you going to unsay it?”

“How can I?”

She turned her face away and her fingers played nervously with her laces.

“No—­indeed, neither of us can unsay such words,” said Orsino.  “But I do not understand you yet, darling.  You must tell me what you mean to-day.”

“You know it all.  It is because you will not understand—­”