“How then?”

“I think you would know how,” he replied gravely, and he fixed his young black eyes on her with an expression that made her half close her own.

“I should think you would make a good actor,” she said softly.

“Provided that I might be allowed to be sincere between the acts.”

“That sounds well.  A little ambiguous perhaps.  Your sincerity might or might not take the same direction as the part you had been acting.”

“That would depend entirely upon yourself, Madame.”

This time Maria Consuelo opened her eyes instead of closing them.

“You do not lack—­what shall I say?  A certain assurance—­you do not waste time!”

She laughed merrily, and Orsino laughed with her.

“We are between the acts now,” he said.  “The curtain goes up to-morrow, and you join the enemy.”

“Come with me, then.”

“In your carriage?  I shall be enchanted.”

“No.  You know I do not mean that.  Come with me to the enemy’s camp.  It will be very amusing.”

Orsino shook his head.

“I would rather die—­if possible at your feet, Madame.”

“Are you afraid to call upon Madame Del Ferice?”

“More than of death itself.”

“How can you say that?”

“The conditions of the life to come are doubtful—­there might be a chance for me.  There is no doubt at all as to what would happen if I went to see Madame Del Ferice.”

“Is your father so severe with you?” asked Maria Consuelo with a little scorn.

“Alas, Madame, I am not sensitive to ridicule,” answered Orsino, quite unmoved.  “I grant that there is something wanting in my character.”

Maria Consuelo had hoped to find a weak point, and had failed, though indeed there were many in the young man’s armour.  She was a little annoyed, both at her own lack of judgment and because it would have amused her to see Orsino in an element so unfamiliar to him as that in which Donna Tullia lived.

“And there is nothing which would induce you to go there?” she asked.

“At present—­nothing,” Orsino answered coldly.

“At present—­but in the future of all possible possibilities?”

“I shall undoubtedly go there.  It is only the unforeseen which invariably happens.”

“I think so too.”

“Of course.  I will illustrate the proverb by bidding you good evening,” said Orsino, laughing as he rose.  “By this time the conviction must have formed itself in your mind that I was never going.  The unforeseen happens.  I go.”

Maria Consuelo would have been glad if he had stayed even longer, for he amused her and interested her, and she did not look forward with pleasure to the lonely evening she was to spend in the hotel.

“I am generally at home at this hour,” she said, giving him her hand.

“Then, if you will allow me?  Thanks.  Good evening, Madame.”