They both laughed and their eyes met for a moment.

“Del Ferice interests me very much,” said Maria Consuelo, abruptly returning to the original subject of conversation.  “He is one of those men who will be held responsible for much that is now doing.  Is it not true?  He has great influence.”

“I have always heard so.”  Orsino was not pleased at being driven to talk of Del Ferice again.

“Do you think what he said about you so altogether absurd?”

“Absurd, no—­impracticable, perhaps.  You mean his suggestion that I should try a little speculation?  Frankly, I had no idea that such things could be begun with so little capital.  It seems incredible.  I fancy that Del Ferice was exaggerating.  You know how carelessly bankers talk of a few thousands, more or less.  Nothing short of a million has much meaning for them.  Three thousand or thirty thousand—­it is much the same in their estimation.”

“I daresay.  After all, why should you risk anything?  I suppose it is simpler to play cards, though I should think it less amusing.  I was only thinking how easy it would be for you to find a serious occupation if you chose.”

Orsino was silent for a moment, and seemed to be thinking over the matter.

“Would you advise me to enter upon such a business without my father’s knowledge?” he asked presently.

“How can I advise you?  Besides, your father would let you do as you please.  There is nothing dishonourable in such things.  The prejudice against business is old-fashioned, and if you do not break through it your children will.”

Orsino looked thoughtfully at Maria Consuelo.  She sometimes found an oddly masculine bluntness with which to express her meaning, and which produced a singular impression on the young man.  It made him feel what he supposed to be a sort of weakness, of which he ought to be ashamed.

“There is nothing dishonourable in the theory,” he answered, “and the practice depends on the individual.”

Maria Consuelo laughed.

“You see—­you can be a moralist when you please,” she said.

There was a wonderful attraction in her yellow eyes just at that moment.

“To please you, Madame, I could do something much worse—­or much better.”

He was not quite in earnest, but he was not jesting, and his face was more serious than his voice.  Maria Consuelo’s hand was lying on the table beside the silver paper-cutter.  The white, pointed fingers were very tempting and he would willingly have touched them.  He put out his hand.  If she did not draw hers away he would lay his own upon it.  If she did, he would take up the paper-cutter.  As it turned out, he had to content himself with the latter.  She did not draw her hand away as though she understood what he was going to do, but quietly raised it and turned the shade of the lamp a few inches.

“I would rather not be responsible for your choice,” she said quietly.