“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.”