“My dear lady,” said the cardinal, “the Earl of Vauxhall was good enough to pay me a visit this afternoon.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Lady Nora, clapping her hands, “if I only could have been behind the curtains!  What did he say?”

“He said,” replied the cardinal, “that he had asked you to be his wife.”

“Indeed he has,” said Lady Nora, “and so have others.”

“He also said,” continued the cardinal, “that you had promised to marry him when he brought you the turquoise cup.”

“And so I will,” said Lady Nora.

“He proposed to buy the cup,” continued the cardinal.  “He offered four thousand pounds, which, he said, was all he had in the world.”

“Good old Bobby!” exclaimed Lady Nora.  “That was nice of him, wasn’t it?” and her eyes glistened.

“Yes,” said the cardinal, “that was nice of him; but when I had explained how impossible it was to sell the cup he bade me good-by, and, as he was going, said, ‘I shall have it.  All is fair in love and war.’  I feared then that he meant to take the cup.  Since I have seen you I am certain of it.”

“What larks!” cried Lady Nora.  “Fancy Bobby with a dark lantern, a bristly beard, and a red handkerchief about his neck.  All burglars are like that, you know; and then fancy him creeping up the aisle with his Johnnie—­no, his jimmy—­and his felt slippers—­fancy Bobby in felt slippers—­and he reaches the treasury door, and just then the moon comes up and shines through that window and illuminates the key in St. Peter’s hand, and Bobby says, ‘An omen,’ and he takes out his own key-ring and the first one he tries fits the lock and the door flies open, and Bobby lifts the cup, locks the door, goes down to the steps by the Doge’s palace—­no gondola—­too late, you know, so he puts the cup in his teeth, takes a header, and swims to the yacht.  When he comes alongside they hail him, and he comes up the ladder.  ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he asks, and they call me, and I come on deck in my pink saut du lit, and there stands Bobby, the water running off him and the cup in his teeth.  ‘There’s your bauble,’ he says. (Of course he takes the cup out of his mouth when he speaks.) ‘And here’s your Nora,’ I say, and the boatswain pipes all hands aft to witness the marriage ceremony.  No, no, your eminence,” she laughed, “it’s too good to be true.  Bobby will never steal the cup.  He has never done anything in all his life but walk down Bond Street.  He’s a love, but he is not energetic.”

“You are doubtless right,” said the cardinal, “and my fears are but the timidity of age; still—­”

The earl joined them.  He had just given the sacristan ten pounds, and had endeavored to treat the gift as a disinterested pourboire.  He felt that he had failed; that he had overdone it, and had made himself a marked man.  The sacristan followed him—­voluble, eulogistic.

“Tommaso,” said the cardinal, “this is the Earl of Vauxhall.  He is to have every privilege, every liberty.  He is to be left alone if he desires it.  He is not to be bothered with attendance or suggestions.  He may use a kodak; he may handle anything in the treasury.  You will regard him as though he were myself.”