“I have never seen her in the least like this before,” he thought, as he looked at her pale face, her dark, grave eyes; “I have never seen her more beautiful.  And there is not one single atom of hope for me.”

“How do you do?” she said, unsmiling and waited, as who should invite him to state his errand.  She did not offer him her hand but, for that matter, (she might have pleaded), she could not, very well:  for one of her hands held her sunshade, and the other held an embroidered silk bag, woman’s makeshift for a pocket.

And then, capping the first pang of his disappointment, a kind of anger seized him.  After all, what right had she to receive him in this fashion?—­as if he were an intrusive stranger.  In common civility, in common justice, she owed it to him to suppose that he would not be there without abundant reason.

And now, with Peter angry, the absurd little scene began.

Assuming an attitude designed to be, in its own way, as reticent as hers, “I was passing your gate,” he explained, “when I happened to find this, lying by the roadside.  I took the liberty of bringing it to you.”

He gave her the Cardinal’s snuff box, which, in spite of her hands’ preoccupation, she was able to accept.

“A liberty!” he thought, grinding his teeth.  “Yes!  No doubt she would have wished me to leave it with the porter at the lodge.  No doubt she deems it an act of officiousness on my part to have found it at all.”

And his anger mounted.

“How very good of you,” she said.  “My uncle could not think where he had mislaid it.”

“I am very fortunate to be the means of restoring it,” said he.

Then, after a second’s suspension, as she said nothing (she kept her eyes on the snuffbox, examining it as if it were quite new to her), he lifted his hat, and bowed, preparatory to retiring down the avenue.

“Oh, but my uncle will wish to thank you,” she exclaimed, looking up, with a kind of start.  “Will you not come in?  I—­I will see whether he is disengaged.”

She made a tentative movement towards the door.  She had thawed perceptibly.

But even as she thawed, Peter, in his anger, froze and stiffened.  “I will see whether he is disengaged.”  The expression grated.  And perhaps, in effect, it was not a particularly felicitous expression.  But if the poor woman was suffering from nervous apprehension—?

“I beg you on no account to disturb Cardinal Udeschini,” he returned loftily.  “It is not a matter of the slightest consequence.”

And even as he stiffened, she unbent.

“But it is a matter of consequence to him, to us,” she said, faintly smiling.  “We have hunted high and low for it.  We feared it was lost for good.  It must have fallen from his pocket when he was walking.  He will wish to thank you.”

“I am more than thanked already,” said Peter.  Alas (as Monsieur de la Pallisse has sagely noted), when we aim to appear dignified, how often do we just succeed in appearing churlish.