Maria Consuelo did not answer. She went towards the window and looked at the splashing rain. Orsino stood where he was, watching her. Suddenly she came back and stood before him.
"We must undo this," she said.
"What do you mean?" He understood well enough.
"You know. We must not love each other. We must undo to-day and forget it."
"If you can talk so lightly of forgetting, you have little to remember," answered Orsino almost roughly.
"You have no right to say that."
"I have the right of a man who loves you."
"The right to be unjust?"
"I am not unjust." His tone softened again. "I know what it means, to say that I love you—it is my life, this love. I have known it a long time. It has been on my lips to say it for weeks, and since it has been said, it cannot be unsaid. A moment ago you told me not to doubt you. I do not. And now you say that we must not love each other, as though we had a choice to make—and why? Because you once made a rash promise—"
"Hush!" interrupted Maria Consuelo. "You must not—"