Orsino said nothing, but shook his head incredulously.
"Yes," repeated Maria Consuelo, "we must not see each other any more after this. It has been all my fault. I shall leave Rome and not come back again. It will be best for you and I will make it best for me."
"You talk very easily of parting."
"Do I? Every word is a wound. Do I look as though I were indifferent?"
Orsino glanced at her pale face and tearful eyes.
"No, dear," he said softly.
"Then do not call me heartless. I have more heart than you think—and it is breaking. And do not say that I do not love you. I love you better than you know—better than you will be loved again when you are older—and happier, perhaps. Yes, I know what you want to say. Well, dear—you love me, too. Yes, I know it. Let there be no unkind words and no doubts between us to-day. I think it is our last day together."
"For God's sake, Consuelo—"
"We shall see. Now let me speak—if I can. There are three reasons why you and I should not marry. I have thought of them through all last night and all to-day, and I know them. The first is my solemn vow to the dying man who loved me so well and who asked nothing but that—whose wife I never was, but whose name I bear. Think me mad, superstitious—what you will—I cannot break that promise. It was almost an oath not to love, and if it was I have broken it. But the rest I can keep, and will. The next reason is that I am older than you. I might forget that, I have forgotten it more than once, but the time will come soon when you will remember it."
Orsino made an angry gesture and would have spoken, but she checked him.