"Ah yes—poor Aranjuez!" Maria Consuelo's voice suddenly took that sleepy tone which Orsino had heard more than once. Her eyelids drooped a little and she lazily opened and shut her hand, and spread out the fingers and looked at them.
But Orsino was not satisfied to let the conversation drop at this point, and after a moment's pause he put a decisive question.
"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."