Orsino and his mother might have talked longer and perhaps to better purpose, but they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, bearing a note. Corona instinctively put out her hand to receive it.
"For Don Orsino," said the man, stopping before him.
Orsino took the letter, looked at it and turned it over.
"I think it is from Madame d'Aranjuez," he remarked, without emotion. "May I read it?"
"There is no answer, Eccellenza," said the servant, whose curiosity was satisfied.
"Read it, of course," said Corona, looking at him.
She was surprised that Madame d'Aranjuez should write to him, but she was still more astonished to see the indifference with which he opened the missive. She had imagined that he was more or less in love with Maria Consuelo.
"I fancy it is the other way," she thought. "The woman wants to marry him. I might have suspected it."
Orsino read the note, and tossed it into the fire without volunteering any information.
"I will take your advice, mother," he said, continuing the former conversation, as though nothing had happened.
But the subject seemed to be exhausted, and before long Orsino made an excuse to his mother and went out.
There was nothing in the note burnt by Orsino which he might not have shown to his mother, since he had already told her the name of the writer. It contained the simple statement that Maria Consuelo was about to leave Rome, and expressed the hope that she might see Orsino before her departure as she had a small request to make of him, in the nature of a commission. She hoped he would forgive her for putting him to so much inconvenience.
Though he betrayed no emotion in reading the few lines, he was in reality annoyed by them, and he wished that he might be prevented from obeying the summons. Maria Consuelo had virtually dropped the acquaintance, and had refused repeatedly and in a marked way to receive him. And now, at the last moment, when she needed something of him, she chose to recall him by a direct invitation. There was nothing to be done but to yield, and it was characteristic of Orsino that, having submitted to necessity, he did not put off the inevitable moment, but went to her at once.
The days were longer now than they had been during the time when he had visited her every day, and the lamp was not yet on the table when Orsino entered the small sitting-room. Maria Consuelo was standing by the window, looking out into the street, and her right hand rested against the pane while her fingers tapped it softly but impatiently. She turned quickly as he entered, but the light was behind her and he could hardly see her face. She came towards him and held out her hand.