Twelve months passed away.  During that time the young man worked, as he had worked before, regularly and untiringly.  But his object now was to free himself, and he no longer hoped to make a fortune or to do any thing beyond the strict execution of the contract he had in hand, determined if possible to avoid taking another.  With a coolness and self-denial beyond his years, he systematically hoarded the allowance he received from his father, in order to put together a sum of money for poor Contini.  He made economies everywhere, refused to go into society and spent his evenings in reading.  His acquired manner stood him in good stead, but he could not bear more than a limited amount of the daily talk in the family.  Being witty, rather than gay, if he could be said to be either, he found himself inclined rather to be bitter than amusing when he was wearied by the monotonous conversation of others.  He knew this to be a mistake and controlled himself, taking refuge in solitude and books when he could control himself no longer.

Whether he loved Maria Consuelo still, or not, it was clear that he was not inclined to love any one else for the present.  The tolerably harmless dissipation and wildness of the two or three years he had spent in England could not account for such a period of coldness as followed his separation from Maria Consuelo.  He had by no means exhausted the pleasures of life and his capacity for enjoyment could not even be said to have reached its height.  But he avoided the society of women even more consistently than he shunned the club and the card table.

More than a year had gone by since he had heard from Maria Consuelo.  He met Spicca from time to time, looking now as though he had not a day to live, but neither of them mentioned past events.  The Romans had talked a little of her sudden change of plans, for it had been known that she had begun to furnish a large apartment for the winter of the previous year, and had then very unaccountably changed her mind and left the place in the hands of an agent to be sub-let.  People said she had lost her fortune.  Then she had been forgotten in the general disaster that followed, and no one had taken the trouble to remember her since then.  Even Gouache, who had once been so enthusiastic over her portrait, did not seem to know or care what had become of her.  Once only, and quite accidentally, Orsino had authentic information of her whereabouts.  He took up an English society journal one evening and glanced idly over the paragraphs.  Maria Consuelo’s name arrested his attention.  A certain very high and mighty old lady of royal lineage was about to travel in Egypt during the winter.  “Her Royal Highness,” said the paper, “will be accompanied by the Countess d’Aranjuez d’Aragona.”  Orsino’s hand shook a little as he laid the sheet aside, and he was pale when he rose a few moments later and went off to his own room.  He could not help wondering why Maria Consuelo was styled by a