Orsino noticed all these details as he stood waiting for Madame d’Aranjuez to appear, and they were not without interest to him, for each one told a story, and the stories were contradictory.  The room was not encumbered with those numberless objects which most women scatter about them within an hour after reaching a hotel.  Yet Madame d’Aranjuez must have been at least a month in Rome.  The room smelt neither of perfume nor of cigarettes, but of the roses, which was better, and a little of the lamp, which was much worse.  The lady’s only possessions seemed to be three books, a travelling cushion and a somewhat too gorgeous paper cutter; and these few objects were perfectly new.  He glanced at the books; they were of the latest, and only one had been cut.  The cushion might have been bought that morning.  Not a breath had tarnished the polished blade of the silver knife.

A door opened softly and Orsino drew himself up as some one pushed in the heavy, vivid curtains.  But it was not Madame d’Aranjuez.  A small dark woman of middle age, with downcast eyes and exceedingly black hair, came forward a step.

“The signora will come presently,” she said in Italian, in a very low voice, as though she were almost afraid of hearing herself speak.

She was gone in a moment, as noiselessly as she had come.  This was evidently the silent maid of whom Gouache had spoken.  The few words she had spoken had revealed to Orsino the fact that she was an Italian from the north, for she had the unmistakable accent of the Piedmontese, whose own language is comprehensible only by themselves.

Orsino prepared to wait some time, supposing that the message could hardly have been sent without an object.  But another minute had not elapsed before Maria Consuelo herself appeared.  In the soft lamplight her clear white skin looked very pale and her auburn hair almost red.  She wore one of those nondescript garments which we have elected to call tea-gowns, and Orsino, who had learned to criticise dress as he had learned Latin grammar, saw that the tea-gown was good and the lace real.  The colours produced no impression upon him whatever.  As a matter of fact they were dark, being combined in various shades of olive.

Maria Consuelo looked at her visitor and held out her hand, but said nothing.  She did not even smile, and Orsino began to fancy that he had chosen an unfortunate moment for his visit.

“It was very good of you to let me come,” he said, waiting for her to sit down.

Still she said nothing.  She placed the red morocco cushion carefully in the particular position which would be most comfortable, turned the shade of the lamp a little, which, of course, produced no change whatever in the direction of the light, pushed one of the books half across the table and at last sat down in the easy chair.  Orsino sat down near her, holding his hat upon his knee.  He wondered whether she had heard him speak, or whether she might not be one of those people who are painfully shy when there is no third person present.