"No—not yet. I thought I could see out."
Still she stood where she was, her face almost touching the pane, one small white hand resting upon the glass, the fingers moving restlessly.
"You meant yourself, just now," said Orsino softly.
She neither spoke nor moved, but her face grew pale. Then he fancied that there was a hardly perceptible movement of her head, the merest shade of an inclination. He leaned a little towards her, resting against the marble sill of the window.
"And you meant something more—" he began to say. Then he stopped short.
His heart was beating hard and the hot blood throbbed in his temples, his lips closed tightly and his breathing was audible.
Maria Consuelo turned her head, glanced at him quickly and instantly looked back at the smooth glass before her and at the green light on the shutters without. He was scarcely conscious that she had moved. In love, as in a storm at sea, matters grow very grave in a few moments.
"You meant that you might still—" Again he stopped. The words would not come.
He fancied that she would not speak. She could not, any more than she could have left his side at that moment. The air was very sultry even in the cool, closed room. The green light on the shutters darkened suddenly. Then a far distant peal of thunder rolled its echoes slowly over the city. Still neither moved from the window.
"If you could—" Orsino's voice was low and soft, but there was something strangely overwrought in the nervous quality of it. It was not hesitation any longer that made him stop.