“Because I cannot and will not stop her?  Is that any reason why you should compromise her reputation as you propose to do?”

“It is the best of reasons.  She will marry me then, out of necessity.”

Spicca rose also, with more alacrity than generally characterised his movements.  He stood before the empty fireplace, watching the young man narrowly.

“It is not a good reason,” he said, presently, in quiet tones.  “You are not the man to do that sort of thing.  You are too honourable.”

“I do not see anything dishonourable in following the woman I love.”

“That depends on the way in which you follow her.  If you go quietly home to-night and write to your father that you have decided to go to Paris for a few days and will leave to-morrow, if you make your arrangements like a sensible being and go away like a sane man, I have nothing to say in the matter—­”

“I presume not—­” interrupted Orsino, facing the old man somewhat fiercely.

“Very well.  We will not quarrel yet.  We will reserve that pleasure for the moment when you cease to understand me.  That way of following her would be bad enough, but no one would have any right to stop you.”

“No one has any right to stop me, as it is.”

“I beg your pardon.  The present circumstances are different.  In the first instance the world would say that you were in love with Madame d’Aranjuez and were pursuing her to press your suit—­of whatever nature that might be.  In the second case the world will assert that you and she, not meaning to be married, have adopted the simple plan of going away together.  That implies her consent, and you have no right to let any one imply that.  I say, it is not honourable to let people think that a lady is risking her reputation for you and perhaps sacrificing it altogether, when she is in reality trying to escape from you.  Am I right, or not?”

“You are ingenious, at all events.  You talk as though the whole world were to know in half an hour that I have gone to Paris in the same train with Madame d’Aranjuez.  That is absurd!”

“Is it?  I think not.  Half an hour is little, perhaps, but half a day is enough.  You are not an insignificant son of an unknown Roman citizen, nor is Madame d’Aranjuez a person who passes unnoticed.  Reporters watch people like you for items of news, and you are perfectly well known by sight.  Apart from that, do you think that your servants will not tell your friends’ servants of your sudden departure, or that Madame d’Aranjuez’ going will not be observed?  You ought to know Rome better than that.  I ask you again, am I right or wrong?”

“What difference will it make, if we are married immediately?”

“She will never marry you.  I am convinced of that.”

“How can you know?  Has she spoken to you about it?”

“I am the last person to whom she would come.”

“Her own father—­”