s failure to impose on others is
forgotten in his misery at failing to impose upon himself.

The few words Orsino had exchanged with Maria Consuelo on the morning of
the great ceremony recalled vividly the pleasant hour he had spent with
her ten days earlier, and he determined to see her as soon as possible.
He was out of conceit with himself and consequently with all those who
knew him, and he looked forward with pleasure to the conversation of an
attractive woman who could have no preconceived opinion of him, and who
could take him at his own estimate. He was curious, too, to find out
something more definite in regard to her. She was mysterious, and the
mystery pleased him. She had admitted that her deceased husband had
spoken of being connected with the Saracinesca, but he could not
discover where the relationship lay. Spicca's very odd remark, too,
seemed to point to her, in some way which Orsino could not understand,
and he remembered her having said that she had heard of Spicca. Her
husband had doubtless been an Italian of Spanish descent, but she had
given no clue to her own nationality, and she did not look Spanish, in
spite of her name, Maria Consuelo. As no one in Rome knew her it was
impossible to get any information whatever. It was all very interesting.

Accordingly, late on the afternoon of the second of January, Orsino
called and was led to the door of a small sitting-room on the second
floor of the hotel. The servant shut the door behind him and Orsino
found himself alone. A lamp with a pretty shade was burning on the table
and beside it an ugly blue glass vase contained a few flowers, common
roses, but fresh and fragrant. Two or three new books in yellow paper
covers lay scattered upon the hideous velvet table cloth, and beside one
of them Orsino noticed a magnificent paper cutter of chiselled silver,
bearing a large monogram done in brilliants and rubies. The thing
contrasted oddly with its surroundings and attracted the light. An easy
chair was drawn up to the table, an abominable object covered with
perfectly new yellow satin. A small red morocco cushion, of the kind
used in travelling, was balanced on the back, and there was a depression
in it, as though some one's head had lately rested there.

Orsino noticed all these details as he stood waiting for Madame
d'Aranjuez to appear, and they were not without interest to him, for
each one told a story, and the stories were contradictory. The room was