not encumbered with those numberless objects which most women scatter
about them within an hour after reaching a hotel. Yet Madame d'Aranjuez
must have been at least a month in Rome. The room smelt neither of
perfume nor of cigarettes, but of the roses, which was better, and a
little of the lamp, which was much worse. The lady's only possessions
seemed to be three books, a travelling cushion and a somewhat too
gorgeous paper cutter; and these few objects were perfectly new. He
glanced at the books; they were of the latest, and only one had been
cut. The cushion might have been bought that morning. Not a breath had
tarnished the polished blade of the silver knife.

A door opened softly and Orsino drew himself up as some one pushed in
the heavy, vivid curtains. But it was not Madame d'Aranjuez. A small
dark woman of middle age, with downcast eyes and exceedingly black hair,
came forward a step.

"The signora will come presently," she said in Italian, in a very low
voice, as though she were almost afraid of hearing herself speak.

She was gone in a moment, as noiselessly as she had come. This was
evidently the silent maid of whom Gouache had spoken. The few words she
had spoken had revealed to Orsino the fact that she was an Italian from
the north, for she had the unmistakable accent of the Piedmontese, whose
own language is comprehensible only by themselves.

Orsino prepared to wait some time, supposing that the message could
hardly have been sent without an object. But another minute had not
elapsed before Maria Consuelo herself appeared. In the soft lamplight
her clear white skin looked very pale and her auburn hair almost red.
She wore one of those nondescript garments which we have elected to
call tea-gowns, and Orsino, who had learned to criticise dress as he had
learned Latin grammar, saw that the tea-gown was good and the lace real.
The colours produced no impression upon him whatever. As a matter of
fact they were dark, being combined in various shades of olive.

Maria Consuelo looked at her visitor and held out her hand, but said
nothing. She did not even smile, and Orsino began to fancy that he had
chosen an unfortunate moment for his visit.

"It was very good of you to let me come," he said, waiting for her to
sit down.

Still she said nothing. She placed the red morocco cushion carefully in
the particular position which would be most comfortable, turned the
shade of the lamp a little, which, of course,