“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.”