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.
"And yet you have left me none," he answered with, sudden boldness.
"No? How so?"