own language,
or for that matter one may never have learned it."

"Are you Italian, then, Madame?" asked Orsino, surprised that she should
lead the conversation so directly to a point which he had supposed must
be reached by a series of tactful approaches.

"Who knows? I am sure I do not. My father was Italian. Does that
constitute nationality?"

"Yes. But the woman takes the nationality of her husband, I believe,"
said Orsino, anxious to hear more.

"Ah yes--poor Aranjuez!" Maria Consuelo's voice suddenly took that
sleepy tone which Orsino had heard more than once. Her eyelids drooped a
little and she lazily opened and shut her hand, and spread out the
fingers and looked at them.

But Orsino was not satisfied to let the conversation drop at this point,
and after a moment's pause he put a decisive question.

"And was Monsieur d'Aranjuez also Italian?" he asked.

"What does it matter?" she asked in the same indolent tone. "Yes, since
you ask me, he was Italian, poor man."

Orsino was more and more puzzled. That the name did not exist in Italy
he was almost convinced. He thought of the story of the Signor Aragno,
who had fallen overboard in the south seas, and then he was suddenly
aware that he could not believe in anything of the sort. Maria Consuelo
did not betray a shade of emotion, either, at the mention of her
deceased husband. She seemed absorbed in the contemplation of her hands.
Orsino had not been rebuked for his curiosity and would have asked
another question if he had known how to frame it. An awkward silence
followed. Maria Consuelo raised her eyes slowly and looked thoughtfully
into Orsino's face.

"I see," she said at last. "You are curious. I do not know whether you
have any right to be--have you?"

"I wish I had!" exclaimed Orsino thoughtlessly.

Again she looked at him in silence for some moments.

"I have not known you long enough," she said. "And if I had known you
longer, perhaps it would not be different. Are other people curious,
too? Do they talk about me?"

"The people I know do--but they do not know you. They see your name in
the papers, as a beautiful Spanish princess. Yet everybody is aware that
there is no Spanish nobleman of your name. Of course they are curious.
They invent stories about you, which I deny. If I knew more, it would be
easier."

"Why do you take the trouble to deny such things?"

She asked the question with a change of manner. Once more she leaned
forward an