Orsino’s face changed and his voice took another tone when he spoke.

“Are you playing with me, Consuelo?” he asked gravely.

She started slightly and grew paler than before.

“You are not kind,” she said.  “I am suffering very much.  Do not make it harder.”

“I am suffering, too.  You mean me to understand that you regret what happened yesterday and that you wish to take back your words, that whether you love me or not, you mean to act and appear as though you did not, and that I am to behave as though nothing had happened.  Do you think that would be easy?  And do you think I do not suffer at the mere idea of it?”

“Since it must be—­”

“There is no must,” answered Orsino with energy.  “You would ruin your life and mine for the mere shadow of a memory which you choose to take for a binding promise.  I will not let you do it.”

“You will not?” She looked at him quickly with an expression of resistance.

“No—­I will not,” he repeated.  “We have too much at stake.  You shall not lose all for both of us.”

“You are wrong, dear one,” she said, with sudden softness.  “If you love me, you should believe me and trust me.  I can give you nothing but unhappiness—­”

“You have given me the only happiness I ever knew—­and you ask me to believe that you could make me unhappy in any way except by not loving me!  Consuelo—­my darling—­are you out of your senses?”

“No.  I am too much in them.  I wish I were not.  If I were mad I should—­”

“What?”

“Never mind.  I will not even say it.  No—­do not try to take my hand, for I will not give it to you.  Listen, Orsino—­be reasonable, listen to me—­”

“I will try and listen.”

But Maria Consuelo did not speak at once.  Possibly she was trying to collect her thoughts.

“What have you to say, dearest?” asked Orsino at length.  “I will try to understand.”

“You must understand.  I will make it all clear to you and then you will see it as I do.”

“And then—­what?”

“And then we must part,” she said in a low voice.

Orsino said nothing, but shook his head incredulously.

“Yes,” repeated Maria Consuelo, “we must not see each other any more after this.  It has been all my fault.  I shall leave Rome and not come back again.  It will be best for you and I will make it best for me.”

“You talk very easily of parting.”

“Do I?  Every word is a wound.  Do I look as though I were indifferent?”

Orsino glanced at her pale face and tearful eyes.

“No, dear,” he said softly.

“Then do not call me heartless.  I have more heart than you think—­and it is breaking.  And do not say that I do not love you.  I love you better than you know—­better than you will be loved again when you are older—­and happier, perhaps.  Yes, I know what you want to say.  Well, dear—­you love me, too.  Yes, I know it.  Let there be no unkind words and no doubts between us to-day.  I think it is our last day together.”