The old man put down his Breviary (he was seated by an open window, getting through his office), and smiled at the snuff box fondly, caressing it with his finger. Afterwards, he shook it, opened it, and took a pinch of snuff.
“Where did you find it?” he enquired.
“It was found by that Mr. Marchdale,” she said, “in the road, outside the gate. You must have let it drop this morning, when you were walking with Emilia.”
“That Mr. Marchdale?” exclaimed the Cardinal. “What a coincidence.”
“A coincidence—?” questioned Beatrice.
“To be sure,” said he. “Was it not to Mr. Marchdale that I owed it in the first instance?”
“Oh—? Was it? I had fancied that you owed it to me.”
“Yes—but,” he reminded her, whilst the lines deepened about his humorous old mouth, “but as a reward of my virtue in conspiring with you to convert him. And, by the way, how is his conversion progressing?”
The Cardinal looked up, with interest.
“It is not progressing at all. I think there is no chance of it,” answered Beatrice, in a tone that seemed to imply a certain irritation.