“And would you have the courage, in spite of your family and of society, to marry me, a woman practically nameless, older than yourself—­”

“I not only would, but I will,” answered Orsino.

“You cannot—­but I thank you, dear,” said Maria Consuelo.

He was standing close beside her.  She took his hand and tenderly touched it with her lips.  He started and drew it back, for no woman had ever kissed his hand.

“You must not do that!” he exclaimed, instinctively.

“And why not, if I please?” she asked, raising her eyebrows with a little affectionate laugh.

“I am not good enough to kiss your hand, darling—­still less to let you kiss mine.  Never mind—­we were talking—­where were we?”

“You were saying—­” But he interrupted her.

“What does it matter, when I love you so, and you love me?” he asked passionately.

He knelt beside her as she lay on the lounge and took her hands, holding them and drawing her towards him.  She resisted and turned her face away.

“No—­no!  It matters too much—­let me go, it only makes it worse!”

“Makes what worse?”

“Parting—­”

“We will not part.  I will not let you go!”

But still she struggled with her hands and he, fearing to hurt them in his grasp, let them slip away with a lingering touch.

“Get up,” she said.  “Sit here, beside me—­a little further—­there.  We can talk better so.”

“I cannot talk at all—­”

“Without holding my hands?”

“Why should I not?”

“Because I ask you.  Please, dear—­”

She drew back on the lounge, raised herself a little and turned her face to him.  Again, as his eyes met hers, he leaned forward quickly, as though he would leave his seat.  But she checked him, by an imperative glance and a gesture.  He was unreasonable and had no right to be annoyed, but something in her manner chilled him and pained him in a way he could not have explained.  When he spoke there was a shade of change in the tone of his voice.

“The things you have told me do not influence me in the least,” he said with more calmness than he had yet shown.  “What you believe to be the most important reason is no reason at all to me.  You are Count Spicca’s daughter.  He is an old friend of my father—­not that it matters very materially, but it may make everything easier.  I will go to him to-day and tell him that I wish to marry you—­”

“You will not do that!” exclaimed Maria Consuelo in a tone of alarm.

“Yes, I will.  Why not?  Do you know what he once said to me?  He told me he wished we might take a fancy to each other, because, as he expressed it, we should be so well matched.”

“Did he say that?” asked Maria Consuelo gravely.

“That or something to the same effect.  Are you surprised?  What surprises me is that I should never have guessed the relation between you.  Now your father is a very honourable man.  What he said meant something, and when he said it he meant that our marriage would seem natural to him and to everybody.  I will go and talk to him.  So much for your great reason.  As for the second you gave, it is absurd.  We are of the same age, to all intents and purposes.”