"Do you think that I would hurt you willingly, in any way?"
"I would rather not think so. You did once."
The words slipped from his lips almost before he had time to realise what they meant. He was thinking of the night when she had drawn up the carriage window, leaving him standing on the pavement, and of her repeated refusals to see him afterwards. It seemed long ago, and the hurt had not really been so sharp as he now fancied that it must have been, judging from what he now felt. She looked at him quickly as though wondering what he would say next.
"I never meant to be unkind," she said. "I have often asked myself whether you could say as much."
It was Orsino's turn to change colour. He was young enough for that, and the blood rose slowly in his dark cheeks. He thought again of their last meeting, and of what he had heard as he shut the door after him on that day. Perhaps he would have spoken, but Maria Consuelo was sorry for what she had said, and a little ashamed of her weakness, as indeed she had some cause to be, and she immediately turned back to a former point of the conversation, not too far removed from what had last been said.
"You see," said she, "I was right to ask you whether people would talk. And I am grateful to you for telling me the truth. It is a first proof of friendship—of something better than our old relations. Will you send me your architect to-morrow, since you are so kind as to offer his help?"
After arranging for the hour of meeting Orsino rose to take his leave.
"May I come to-morrow?" he asked. "People will not talk about that," he added with a smile.
"You can ask for me. I may be out. If I am at home, I shall be glad to see you."
She spoke coldly, and Orsino saw that she was looking over his shoulder. He turned instinctively and saw that the door was open and Spicca was standing just outside, looking in and apparently waiting for a word from Maria Consuelo before entering.