"At present it would not be an act of friendship," answered Maria Consuelo, thoughtfully.
"That is very strange. Do you mean to say that you submit voluntarily—"
"The woman is a condition imposed upon me. I cannot tell you more."
"And no friend, no friendly help can change the condition, I suppose."
"I did not say that. But such help is beyond your power, Don Orsino," she added turning towards him rather suddenly. "Let us not talk of this any more. Believe me, nothing can be done. You have sometimes acted strangely with me, but I really think you would help me if you could. Let that be the state of our acquaintance. You are willing, and I believe that you are. Nothing more. Let that be our compact. But you can perhaps help me in another way—a smaller way. I want a habitation of some kind for the winter, for I am tired of camping out in hotels. You who know your own city so well can name some person who will undertake the matter."
"I know the very man," said Orsino promptly.
"Will you write out the address for me?"
"It is not necessary. I mean myself."
"I could not let you take so much trouble," protested Maria Consuelo.
But she accepted, nevertheless, after a little hesitation. For some time they discussed the relative advantages of the various habitable quarters of the city, both glad, perhaps, to find an almost indifferent subject of conversation, and both relatively happy merely in being together. The talk made one of those restful interludes which are so necessary, and often so hard to produce, between two people whose thoughts run upon a strong common interest, and who find it difficult to exchange half a dozen words without being led back to the absorbing topic.