"I believe you are."
"Then I cannot see that I am not the sort of man whom a woman might take for a friend when a better is not at hand."
"And do you believe in friendship, Don Orsino?" asked Maria Consuelo quietly.
"I have heard it said that it is not wise to disbelieve anything nowadays," answered Orsino.
"True—and the word 'friend' has such a pretty sound!" She laughed, for the first time since he had entered the room.
"Then it is you who are the unbeliever, Madame. Is not that a sign that you need no friend at all, and that your questions are not seriously meant?"
"Perhaps. Who knows?"
"Do you know, yourself?"
"No." Again she laughed a little, and then grew suddenly grave.
"I never knew a woman who needed a friend more urgently than you do," said Orsino. "I do not in the least understand your position. The little you have told me makes it clear enough that there have been and still are unusual circumstances in your life. One thing I see. That woman whom you call your maid is forced upon you against your will, to watch you, and is privileged to tell lies about you which may do you a great injury. I do not ask why you are obliged to suffer her presence, but I see that you must, and I guess that you hate it. Would it be an act of friendship to free you from her or not?"