“I am not twenty-three years old.”

“And I am not quite two and twenty.  Is that a difference?  So much for that.  Take the third, which you put first.  Seriously, do you think that any intelligent being would consider you bound by such a promise?  Do you mean to say that a young girl—­you were nothing more—­has a right to throw away her life out of sentiment by making a promise of that kind?  And to whom?  To a man who is not her husband, and never can be, because he is dying.  To a man just not indifferent to her, to a man—­”

Maria Consuelo raised herself and looked full at Orsino.  Her face was extremely pale and her eyes were suddenly dark and gleamed.

“Don Orsino, you have no right to talk to me in that way.  I loved him—­no one knows how I loved him!”

There was no mistaking the tone and the look.  Orsino felt again and more strongly, the chill and the pain he had felt before.  He was silent for a moment.  Maria Consuelo looked at him a second longer, and then let her head fall back upon the cushion.  But the expression which had come into her face did not change at once.

“Forgive me,” said Orsino after a pause.  “I had not quite understood.  The only imaginable reason which could make our marriage impossible would be that.  If you loved him so well—­if you loved him in such a way as to prevent you from loving me as I love you—­why then, you may be right after all.”

In the silence which followed, he turned his face away and gazed at the window.  He had spoken quietly enough and his expression, strange to say, was calm and thoughtful.  It is not always easy for a woman to understand a man, for men soon learn to conceal what hurts them but take little trouble to hide their happiness, if they are honest.  A man more often betrays himself by a look of pleasure than by an expression of disappointment.  It was thought manly to bear pain in silence long before it became fashionable to seem indifferent to joy.

Orsino’s manner displeased Maria Consuelo.  It was too quiet and cold and she thought he cared less than he really did.

“You say nothing,” he said at last.

“What shall I say?  You speak of something preventing me from loving you as you love me.  How can I tell how much you love me?”

“Do you not see it?  Do you not feel it?” Orsino’s tone warmed again as he turned towards her, but he was conscious of an effort.  Deeply as he loved her, it was not natural for him to speak passionately just at that moment, but he knew she expected it and he did his best.  She was disappointed.

“Not always,” she answered with a little sigh.

“You do not always believe that I love you?”

“I did not say that.  I am not always sure that you love me as much as you think you do—­you imagine a great deal.”

“I did not know it.”

“Yes—­sometimes.  I am sure it is so.”

“And how am I to prove that you are wrong and I am right?”