“Since you insist upon our parting,” Orsino said, after a short, strained silence, “it is better that it should be got over at once.”  In spite of himself his voice was still unsteady.

“I did not—­no—­yes, it is better so.”

“Then good-bye, Madame.”

It was impossible for her to understand all that had passed in his mind while he had sat beside her, after the previous conversation had ended.  His abruptness and coldness were incomprehensible to her.

“Good-bye, then—­Orsino.”

For a moment her eyes rested on his.  It was the sad look he had anticipated, and she put out her hand now.  Surely, he thought, if she loved him she would not let him go so easily.  He took her fingers and would have raised them to his lips when they suddenly closed on his, not with the passionate, loving pressure of yesterday, but firmly and quietly, as though they would not be disobeyed, guiding him again to his seat close beside her.  He sat down.

“Good-bye, then, Orsino,” she repeated, not yet relinquishing her hold.  “Good-bye, dear, since it must be good-bye—­but not good-bye as you said it.  You shall not go until you can say it differently.”

She let him go now and changed her own position.  Her feet slipped to the ground and she leaned with her elbow upon the head of the lounge, resting her cheek against her hand.  She was nearer to him now than before and their eyes met as they faced each other.  She had certainly not chosen her attitude with any second thought of her own appearance, but as Orsino looked into her face he saw again clearly all the beauties that he had so long admired, the passionate eyes, the full, firm mouth, the broad brow, the luminous white skin—­all beauties in themselves though not, together, making real beauty in her case.  And beyond these he saw and felt over them all and through them all the charm that fascinated him, appealing as it were to him in particular of all men as it could not appeal to another.  He was still angry, disturbed out of his natural self and almost out of his passion, but he felt none the less that Maria Consuelo could hold him if she pleased, as long as a shadow of affection for her remained in him, and perhaps longer.  When she spoke, he knew what she meant, and he did not interrupt her nor attempt to answer.

“I have meant all I have said to-day,” she continued.  “Do not think it is easy for me to say more.  I would give all I have to give to take back yesterday, for yesterday was my great mistake.  I am only a woman and you will forgive me.  I do what.  I am doing now, for your sake—­God knows it is not for mine.  God knows how hard it is for me to part from you.  I am in earnest, you see.  You believe me now.”

Her voice was steady but the tears were already welling over.

“Yes, dear, I believe you,” Orsino answered softly.  Women’s tears are a great solvent of man’s ill temper.

“As for this being right and best, this parting, you will see it as I do sooner or later.  But you do believe that I love you, dearly, tenderly, very—­well, no matter how—­you believe it?”