Little by little, however, and long before the day dawned, the dominating influence asserted itself above the secondary one and he was thinking only of Maria Consuelo.  Throughout all that night she was travelling, as she would perhaps travel throughout all the next day and the second night succeeding that.  For she was strong and having once determined upon the journey would very probably go to the end of it without stopping to rest.  He wondered whether she too were waking through all those long hours, thinking of what she had left behind, or whether she had closed her eyes and found the peace of sleep for which he longed in vain.  He thought of her face, softly lighted by the dim lamp of the railway carriage, and fancied he could actually see it with the delicate shadows, the subdued richness of colour, the settled look of sadness.  When the picture grew dim, he recalled it by a strong effort, though he knew that each time it rose before his eyes he must feel the same sharp thrust of pain, followed by the same dull wave of hopeless misery which had ebbed and flowed again so many times since he had parted from her.

At last he roused himself, looked about him as though he were in a strange place, lighted a candle and betook himself to his own quarters.  It was very late, and he was more tired than he knew, for in spite of all his troubles he fell asleep and did not awake till the sun was streaming into the room.

Some one knocked at the door, and a servant announced that Signor Contini was waiting to see Don Orsino.  The man’s face expressed a sort of servile surprise when he saw that Orsino had not undressed for the night and had been sleeping on the divan.  He began to busy himself with the toilet things as though expecting Orsino to take some thought for his appearance.  But the latter was anxious to see Contini at once, and sent for him.

The architect was evidently very much disturbed.  He was as pale as though he had just recovered from a long illness and he seemed to have grown suddenly emaciated during the night.  He spoke in a low, excited tone.

In substance he told Orsino what San Giacinto had said on the previous evening.  Things looked very black indeed, and Del Ferice’s bank had refused to discount any more of Prince Montevarchi’s paper.

“And we must have money to-day,” Contini concluded.

When he had finished speaking his excitement disappeared and he relapsed into the utmost dejection.  Orsino remained silent for some time and then lit a cigarette.

“You need not be so down-hearted, Contini,” he said at last.  “I shall not have any difficulty in getting money—­you know that.  What I feel most is the moral failure.”

“What is the moral failure to me?” asked Contini gloomily.  “It is all very well to talk of getting money.  The bank will shut its tills like a steel trap and to-day is Saturday, and there are the workmen and others to be paid, and several bills due into the bargain.  Of course your family can give you millions—­in time.  But we need cash to-day.  That is the trouble.”