Orsino hesitated.
"You see!" cried, the old Prince. "It is not all right. There is a secret—there is something wrong about her family, or about her entrance into the world. She knows perfectly well that we would never receive her and has concealed it all from you—"
"She has not concealed it. She has told me the exact truth. But I shall not repeat it to you."
"All the stronger proof that everything is not right. You are well out of it, my boy, exceedingly well out of it. I congratulate you."
"I would rather not be congratulated."
"As you please. I am sorry for you, if you are unhappy. Try and forget all about it. How is your mother?"
At any other time Orsino would have laughed at the characteristic abruptness.
"Perfectly well, I believe. I have not seen her all summer," he answered gravely.
"Not been to Saracinesca all summer! No wonder you look ill. Telegraph to them that I have come back and let us get the family together as soon as possible. Do you think I mean to spend six months alone in your company, especially when you are away all day at that wretched office of yours? Be quick about it—telegraph at once."
"Very well. But please do not repeat anything of what I have told you to my father or my mother. That is the only thing I have to ask."