“Oh—­well,” said Beatrice.

She was plainly unwilling.  But she went to put on her things.

In the carriage, when they had passed the village and crossed the bridge, as they were bowling along the straight white road that led to the villa, “What a long time it is since Mr. Marchdale has been at Ventirose,” remarked the Cardinal.

“Oh—?  Is it?” responded Beatrice, with indifference.

“It is more than three weeks, I think—­it is nearly a month,” the Cardinal said.

“Oh—?” said she.

“He has had his hands full, of course; he has had little leisure,” the Cardinal pursued.  “His devotion to his poor old servant has been quite admirable.  But now that she is practically recovered, he will be freer.”

“Yes,” said Beatrice.

“He is a young man whom I like very much,” said the Cardinal.  “He is intelligent; he has good manners; and he has a fine sense of the droll.  Yes, he has wit—­a wit that you seldom find in an Anglo-Saxon, a wit that is almost Latin.  But you have lost your interest in him?  That is because you despair of his conversion?”

“I confess I am not greatly interested in him,” Beatrice answered.  “And I certainly have no hopes of his conversion.”

The Cardinal smiled at his ring.  He opened his snuffbox, and inhaled a long deliberate pinch of snuff.

“Ah, well—­who can tell?” he said.  “But—­he will be free now, and it is so long since he has been at the castle—­had you not better ask him to luncheon or dinner?”

“Why should I?” answered Beatrice.  “If he does not come to Ventirose, it is presumably because he does not care to come.  If he does care to come, he needs no invitation.  He knows that he is at liberty to call whenever he likes.”

“But it would be civil, it would be neighbourly, to ask him to a meal,” the Cardinal submitted.

“And it would put him in the embarrassing predicament of having either to accept against his will, or to decline and appear ungracious,” submitted Beatrice.  “No, it is evident that Ventirose does not amuse him.”

“Bene,” said the Cardinal.  “Be it as you wish.”

But when they reached Villa Floriano, Peter was not at home.

“He has gone to Spiaggia for the day,” Emilia informed them.

Beatrice, the Cardinal fancied, looked at once relieved and disappointed.

Marietta was seated in the sun, in a sheltered corner of the garden.

While Beatrice talked with her, the Cardinal walked about.

Now it so happened that on Peter’s rustic table a book lay open, face downwards.

The Cardinal saw the book.  He halted in his walk, and glanced round the garden, as if to make sure that he was not observed.  He tapped his snuff—­box, and took a pinch of snuff.  Then he appeared to meditate for an instant, the lines about his mouth becoming very marked indeed.  At last, swiftly, stealthily, almost with the air of a man committing felony, he slipped his snuff-box under the open book, well under it, so that it was completely covered up.