The Cardinal chuckled.

“Ah, one must keep one’s hand in.  And one must not look like a Jesuit for nothing.”

“Do you look like a Jesuit?”

“I have been told so.”

“By whom—­for mercy’s sake?”

“By a gentleman I had the pleasure of meeting not long ago in the train—­a very gorgeous gentleman, with gold chains and diamonds flashing from every corner of his person, and a splendid waxed moustache, and a bald head which, I think, was made of polished pink coral.  He turned to me in the most affable manner, and said, ’I see, Reverend Sir, that you are a Jesuit.  There should be a fellow-feeling between you and me.  I am a Jew.  Jews and Jesuits have an almost equally bad name!’”

The Cardinal’s humorous grey eyes swam in a glow of delighted merriment.

“I could have hugged him for his ‘almost.’  I have been wondering ever since whether in his mind it was the Jews or the Jesuits who benefited by that reservation.  I have been wondering also what I ought to have replied.”

“What did you reply?” asked Beatrice, curious.

“No, no,” said the Cardinal.  “With sentiments of the highest consideration, I must respectfully decline to tell you.  It was too flat.  I am humiliated whenever I recall it.”

“You might have replied that the Jews, at least, have the advantage of meriting their bad name,” she suggested.

“Oh, my dear child!” objected he.  “My reply was flat—­you would have had it sharp.  I should have hurt the poor well-meaning man’s feelings, and perhaps have burdened my own soul with a falsehood, into the bargain.  Who are we, to judge whether people merit their bad name or not?  No, no.  The humiliating circumstance is, that if I had possessed the substance as well as the show, if I had really been a son of St. Ignatius, I should have found a retort that would have effected the Jew’s conversion.”

“And apropos of conversions,” said Beatrice, “see how far we have strayed from our muttons.”

“Our muttons—?” The Cardinal looked up, enquiring.

“I want to know what you think—­not of my hat—­but of my man.”

“Oh—­ah, yes; your Englishman, your tenant.”  The Cardinal nodded.

“My Englishman—­my tenant—­my heretic,” said she.

“Well,” said he, pondering, while the parentheses became marked again,—­“I should think, from what you tell me, that you would find him a useful neighbour.  Let me see . . .  You got fifty lire out of him, for a word; and the children went off, blessing you as their benefactress.  I should think that you would find him a valuable neighbour—­and that he, on his side, might find you an expensive one.”

Beatrice, with a gesture, implored him to be serious.

“Ah, please don’t tease about this,” she said.  “I want to know what you think of his conversion?”

“The conversion of a heretic is always ’a consummation devoutly to be desired,’ as well, you may settle it between Shakespeare and Byron, to suit yourself.  And there are none so devoutly desirous of such consummations as you Catholics of England —­especially you women.  It is said that a Catholic Englishwoman once tried to convert the Pope.”