“Well, there have been popes whom it would n’t have hurt,” commented Beatrice.  “And as for Mr. Marchdale,” she continued, “he has shown ‘dispositions.’  He admitted that he could see no reason why it should not have been Our Blessed Lady who sent us to the children’s aid.  Surely, from a Protestant, that is an extraordinary admission?”

“Yes,” said the Cardinal.  “And if he meant it, one may conclude that he has a philosophic mind.”

“If he meant it?” Beatrice cried.  “Why should he not have meant it?  Why should he have said it if he did not mean it?”

“Oh, don’t ask me,” protested the Cardinal.  “There is a thing the French call politesse.  I can conceive a young man professing to agree with a lady for the sake of what the French might call her beaux yeux.”

“I give you my word,” said Beatrice, “that my beaux yeux had nothing to do with the case.  He said it in the most absolute good faith.  He said he believed that in a universe like ours nothing was impossible—­that there were more things in heaven and earth than people generally dreamed of—­that he could see no reason why the Blessed Virgin should not have sent us across the children’s path.  Oh, he meant it.  I am perfectly sure he meant it.”

The Cardinal smiled—­at her eagerness, perhaps.

“Well, then,” he repeated, “we must conclude that he has a philosophic mind.”

“But what is one to do?” asked she.  “Surely one ought to do something?  One ought to follow such an admission up?  When a man is so far on the way to the light, it is surely one’s duty to lead him farther?”

“Without doubt,” said the Cardinal.

“Well—?  What can one do?”

The Cardinal looked grave.

“One can pray,” he said.

“Emilia and I pray for his conversion night and morning.”

“That is good,” he approved.

“But that is surely not enough?”

“One can have Masses said.”

“Monsignor Langshawe, at the castle, says a Mass for him twice a week.”

“That is good,” approved the Cardinal.

“But is that enough?”

“Why doesn’t Monsignor Langshawe call upon him—­cultivate his acquaintance—­talk with him—­set him thinking?” the Cardinal enquired.

“Oh, Monsignor Langshawe!” Beatrice sighed, with a gesture.  “He is interested in nothing but geology—­he would talk to him of nothing but moraines—­he would set him thinking of nothing but the march of glaciers.”

“Hum,” said the Cardinal.

“Well, then—?” questioned Beatrice.

“Well, then, Carissima, why do you not take the affair in hand yourself?”

“But that is just the difficulty.  What can I what can a mere woman—­do in such a case?”

The Cardinal looked into his amethyst, as a crystal-gazer into his crystal; and the lines about his humorous old mouth deepened and quivered.

“I will lend you the works of Bellarmine in I forget how many volumes.  You can prime yourself with them, and then invite your heretic to a course of instructions.”