Maria Consuelo smiled and as usual her strong red lips closed as soon as she had finished speaking, a habit which lent the smile something unusual, half-mysterious, and self-contained.
"I see nothing to laugh at," answered Orsino. "Did the mythological personage whose name I have forgotten laugh when the sphynx proposed the riddle to him?"
"That is the third time within the last few days that I have been compared to a sphynx by you or Gouache. It lacks originality in the end."
"I was not thinking of being original. I was too much interested. Your riddle is the problem of my life."
"The resemblance ceases there. I cannot eat you up if you do not guess the answer—or if you do not take my advice. I am not prepared to go so far as that."
"Was it advice? It sounded more like a question."
"I would not ask one when I am sure of getting no answer. Besides, I do not like being laughed at."
"What has that to do with the matter? Why imagine anything so impossible?"
"After all—perhaps it is more foolish to say, 'I advise you to do so and so,' than to ask, 'Why do you not do so and so?' Advice is always disagreeable and the adviser is always more or less ridiculous. Advice brings its own punishment."
"Is that not cynical?" asked Orsino.