"What other things?"
But Maria Consuelo did not answer. Orsino knew that she was thinking of all that had once passed between them. He wondered whether, if he led the way, she would press him as she had done at their last meeting. If she did, he wondered what he should say. He had been very cold then, far colder than he was now. He now felt drawn to her, as in the first days of their acquaintance. He felt always that he was on the point of understanding her, and yet that he was waiting, for something which should help him to pass that point.
"What other things?" he asked, repeating his question. "Do you mean that there are reasons which may prevent me from being a good friend of yours?"
"I am afraid there are. I do not know."
"I think you are mistaken, Madame. Will you name some of those reasons—or even one?"
Maria Consuelo did not answer at once. She glanced at him, looked down, and then her eyes met his again.
"Do you think that you are the kind of man a woman chooses for her friend?" she asked at length, with a faint smile.
"I have not thought of the matter—"
"But you should—before offering your friendship."
"Why? If I feel a sincere sympathy for your trouble, if I am—" he hesitated, weighing his words—"if I am personally attached to you, why can I not help you? I am honest, and in earnest. May I say as much as that of myself?"