“And was Monsieur d’Aranjuez also Italian?” he asked.

“What does it matter?” she asked in the same indolent tone.  “Yes, since you ask me, he was Italian, poor man.”

Orsino was more and more puzzled.  That the name did not exist in Italy he was almost convinced.  He thought of the story of the Signor Aragno, who had fallen overboard in the south seas, and then he was suddenly aware that he could not believe in anything of the sort.  Maria Consuelo did not betray a shade of emotion, either, at the mention of her deceased husband.  She seemed absorbed in the contemplation of her hands.  Orsino had not been rebuked for his curiosity and would have asked another question if he had known how to frame it.  An awkward silence followed.  Maria Consuelo raised her eyes slowly and looked thoughtfully into Orsino’s face.

“I see,” she said at last.  “You are curious.  I do not know whether you have any right to be—­have you?”

“I wish I had!” exclaimed Orsino thoughtlessly.

Again she looked at him in silence for some moments.

“I have not known you long enough,” she said.  “And if I had known you longer, perhaps it would not be different.  Are other people curious, too?  Do they talk about me?”

“The people I know do—­but they do not know you.  They see your name in the papers, as a beautiful Spanish princess.  Yet everybody is aware that there is no Spanish nobleman of your name.  Of course they are curious.  They invent stories about you, which I deny.  If I knew more, it would be easier.”

“Why do you take the trouble to deny such things?”

She asked the question with a change of manner.  Once more she leaned forward and her face softened wonderfully as she looked at him.

“Can you not guess?” he asked.

He was conscious of a very unusual emotion, not at all in harmony with the imaginary character he had chosen for himself, and which he generally maintained with considerable success.  Maria Consuelo was one person when she leaned back in her chair, laughing or idly listening to his talk, or repulsing the insignificant declarations of devotion which were not even meant to be taken altogether in earnest.  She was pretty then, attractive, graceful, feminine, a little artificial, perhaps, and Orsino felt that he was free to like her or not, as he pleased, but that he pleased to like her for the present.  She was quite another woman to-day, as she bent forward, her tawny eyes growing darker and more mysterious every moment, her auburn hair casting wonderful shadows upon her broad pale forehead, her lips not closed as usual, but slightly parted, her fragrant breath just stirring the quiet air Orsino breathed.  Her features might be irregular.  It did not matter.  She was beautiful for the moment with a kind of beauty Orsino had never seen, and which produced a sudden and overwhelming effect upon him.

“Do you not know?” he asked again, and his voice trembled unexpectedly.