succeeded fairly well, while at the same time he indulged in endless and
fruitless speculations as to her former life, her present intentions and
her sentiments with regard to himself. He would have liked to lead her
into talking of herself, but he did not know where to begin. It was not
a part of his system to believe in mysteries concerning people, but
when he reflected upon the matter he was amazed at the impenetrability
of the barrier which cut him off from all knowledge of her life. He soon
heard the tales about her which were carelessly circulated at the club,
and he listened to them without much interest, though he took the
trouble to deny their truth on his own responsibility, which surprised
the men who knew him and gave rise to the story that he was in love with
Madame d'Aranjuez. The most annoying consequence of the rumour was that
every woman to whom he spoke in society overwhelmed him with questions
which he could not answer except in the vaguest terms. In his ignorance
he did his best to evolve a satisfactory history for Maria Consuelo out
of his imagination, but the result was not satisfactory.

He continued his visits to her, resolving before each meeting that he
would risk offending her by putting some question which she must either
answer directly or refuse to answer altogether. But he had not counted
upon his own inherent hatred of rudeness, nor upon the growth of an
attachment which he had not foreseen when he had coldly made up his mind
that it would be worth while to make love to her, as Gouache had
laughingly suggested. Yet he was pleased with what he deemed his own
coldness. He assuredly did not love her, but he knew already that he
would not like to give up the half hours he spent with her. To offend
her seriously would be to forfeit a portion of his daily amusement which
he could not spare.

From time to time he risked a careless, half-jesting declaration such as
many a woman might have taken seriously. But Maria Consuelo turned such
advances with a laugh or by an answer that was admirably tempered with
quiet dignity and friendly rebuke.

"If she is not good," he said to himself at last, "she must be
enormously clever. She must be one or the other."

CHAPTER IX.

Orsino's twenty-first birthday fell in the latter part of January, when
the Roman season was at its height, but as the young man's majority did
not bring him any of those sudden changes in position which make epochs
in th