ed to write out of civility. He
hoped for an answer. Even if she were in Paris, Maria Consuelo might
not, and probably would not, reply by return of post. And it was not
probable that she would be in town at the beginning of September. Orsino
calculated the time necessary to forward the letter from Paris to the
most distant part of frequented Europe, allowed her three days for
answering and three days more for her letter to reach him. The interval
elapsed, but nothing came. Then he was irritated, and at last he became
anxious. Either something had happened to Maria Consuelo, or he had
somehow unconsciously offended her by what he had written. He had no
copy of the letter and could not recall a single phrase which could have
displeased her, but he feared lest something might have crept into it
which she might misinterpret. But this idea was too absurd to be tenable
for long, and the conviction grew upon him that she must be ill or in
some great trouble. He was amazed at his own anxiety.

Three weeks had gone by since he had written, and yet no word of reply
had reached him. Then he sought out Spicca and asked him boldly whether
anything had happened to Maria Consuelo, explaining that he had written
to her and had got no answer. Spicca looked at him curiously for a
moment.

"Nothing has happened to her, as far as I am aware," he said, almost
immediately. "I saw her this morning."

"This morning?" Orsino was surprised almost out of words.

"Yes. She is here, looking for an apartment in which to spend the
winter."

"Where is she?"

Spicca named the hotel, adding that Orsino would probably find her at
home during the hot hours of the afternoon.

"Has she been here long?" asked the young man.

"Three days."

"I will go and see her at once. I may be useful to her in finding an
apartment."

"That would be very kind of you," observed Spicca, glancing at him
rather thoughtfully.

On the following afternoon, Orsino presented himself at the hotel and
asked for Madame d'Aranjuez. She received him in a room not very
different from the one of which she had had made her sitting-room during
the winter. As always, one or two new books and the mysterious silver
paper cutter were the only objects of her own which were visible. Orsino
hardly noticed the fact, however, for she was already in the room when
he entered, and his eyes met hers at once.

He fancied that she looked less strong than formerly, but the heat was
great