The maid entered, set the shaded lamp upon the table and glanced sharply at Orsino. He could not help noticing the look. In a moment she was gone, and the door closed behind her. Maria Consuelo looked over her shoulder to see that it had not been left ajar.
"She is a very extraordinary person, that elderly maid of mine," she said.
"So I should imagine from her face."
"Yes. She looked at you as she passed and I saw that you noticed it. She is my protector. I never have travelled without her and she watches over me—as a cat watches a mouse."
The little laugh that accompanied the words was not one of satisfaction, and the shade of annoyance did not escape Orsino.
"I suppose she is one of those people to whose ways one submits because one cannot live without them," he observed.
"Yes. That is it. That is exactly it," repeated Maria Consuelo. "And she is very strongly attached to me," she added after an instant's hesitation. "I do not think she will ever leave me. In fact we are attached to each other."
She laughed again as though amused by her own way of stating the relation, and drew the paper-cutter through her hand two or three times. Orsino's eyes were oddly fascinated by the flash of the jewels.
"I would like to know the history of that knife," he said, almost thoughtlessly.
Maria Consuelo started and looked at him, paler even than before. The question seemed to be a very unexpected one.