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.