He resumed his walk, reopening his Breviary.

Beatrice resumed her needlework.  But she found it difficult to fix her attention on it.  Every now and then, she would leave her needle stuck across its seam, let the work drop to her lap, and, with eyes turned vaguely up the valley, fall, apparently, into a muse.

“I wonder why he said all that to me?” was the question that kept posing itself.

By and by the Cardinal closed his Breviary, and put it in his pocket.  I suppose he had finished his office for the day.  Then he came and sat down in one of the wicker chairs, under the awning.  On the table, among the books and things, stood a carafe of water, some tumblers, a silver sugar-bowl, and a crystal dish full of fresh pomegranate seeds.  It looked like a dish full of unset rubies.  The Cardinal poured some water into a tumbler, added a lump of sugar and a spoonful of pomegranate seeds, stirred the mixture till it became rose-coloured, and drank it off in a series of little sips.

“What is the matter, Beatrice?” he asked, all at once.

Beatrice raised her eyes, perplexed.

“The matter—?  Is anything the matter?”

“Yes,” said the Cardinal; “something is the matter.  You are depressed, you are nervous, you are not yourself.  I have noticed it for many days.  Have you something on, your mind?”

“Nothing in the world,” Beatrice answered, with an appearance of great candour.  “I had not noticed that I was nervous or depressed.”

“We are entering October,” said the Cardinal.  “I must return to Rome.  I have been absent too long already.  I must return next week.  But I should not like to go away with the feeling that you are unhappy.”

“If a thing were needed to make me unhappy, it would be the announcement of your intended departure,” Beatrice said, smiling.  “But otherwise, I am no more unhappy than it is natural to be.  Life, after all, is n’t such a furiously gay business as to keep one perpetually singing and dancing—­is it?  But I am not especially unhappy.”

“H’m,” said the Cardinal.  Then, in a minute, “You will come to Rome in November, I suppose?” he asked.

“Yes—­towards the end of November, I think,” said Beatrice.

The Cardinal rose, and began to walk backwards and forwards again.

In a little while the sound of carriage-wheels could be heard, in the sweep, round the corner of the house.

The Cardinal looked at his watch.

“Here is the carriage,” he said.  “I must go down and see that poor old woman . . . .  Do you know,” he added, after a moment’s hesitation, “I think it would be well if you were to go with me.”

A shadow came into Beatrice’s eyes.

“What good would that do?” she asked.

“It would give her pleasure, no doubt.  And besides, she is one of your parishioners, as it were.  I think you ought to go.  You have never been to see her since she fell ill.”