“God hasten the good day,” said Monsignor Langshawe.

“If I can live to see Rome restored to the Pope, I shall die content, even though I cannot live to see France restored to the King,” said the old Frenchwoman.

“And I—­even though I cannot live to see Britain restored to the Faith,” said the Monsignore.

The Duchessa smiled at Peter.

“What a hotbed of Ultramontanes and reactionaries you have fallen into,” she murmured.

“It is exhilarating,” said he, “to meet people who have convictions.”

“Even when you regard their convictions as erroneous?” she asked.

“Yes, even then,” he answered.  “But I’m not sure I regard as erroneous the convictions I have heard expressed to-night.”

“Oh—?” she wondered.  “Would you like to see Rome restored to the Pope?”

“Yes,” said he, “decidedly—­for aesthetic reasons, if for no others.”

“I suppose there are aesthetic reasons,” she assented.  “But we, of course, think there are conclusive reasons in mere justice.”

“I don’t doubt there are conclusive reasons in mere justice, too,” said he.

After dinner, at the Cardinal’s invitation, the Duchessa went to the piano, and played Bach and Scarlatti.  Her face, in the soft candlelight, as she discoursed that “luminous, lucid” music, Peter thought . . .  But what do lovers always think of their ladies’ faces, when they look up from their pianos, in soft candlelight?

Mrs. O’Donovan Florence, taking her departure, said to the Cardinal, “I owe your Eminence the two proudest days of my life.  The first was when I read in the paper that you had received the hat, and I was able to boast to all my acquaintances that I had been in the convent with your niece by marriage.  And the second is now, when I can boast forevermore hereafter that I’ve enjoyed the honour of making my courtesy to you.”

“So,” said Peter, as he walked home through the dew and the starlight of the park, amid the phantom perfumes of the night, “so the Cardinal does n’t approve of mixed marriages and, of course, his niece does n’t, either.  But what can it matter to me?  For alas and alas—­as he truly said—­it’s hardly a question of actuality.”

And he lit a cigarette.

XX

“So he did meet her, after all?” the Duchessa said.

“Yes, he met her in the end,” Peter answered.

They were seated under the gay white awning, against the bright perspective of lawn, lake, and mountains, on the terrace at Ventirose, where Peter was paying his dinner-call.  The August day was hot and still and beautiful—­a day made of gold and velvet and sweet odours.  The Duchessa lay back languidly, among the crisp silk cushions, in her low, lounging chair; and Peter, as he looked at her, told himself that he must be cautious, cautious.

“Yes, he met her in the end,” he said.

“Well—?  And then—?” she questioned, with a show of eagerness, smiling into his eyes.  “What happened?  Did she come up to his expectations?  Or was she just the usual disappointment?  I have been pining—­oh, but pining—­to hear the continuation of the story.”