“At any rate,” said Beatrice, laying what unction she could to her soul, “I am acquainted with a dignitary of the Church, who has lost a handsome silver snuffbox—beautiful repousse work, with his arms engraved on the lid.”
“And I,” retaliated he, “I am acquainted with a broken-down old doctor and his wife, in Trastevere, who shall have meat and wine at dinner for the next two months—at the expense of a niece of mine. 'I am so glad,' as Alice of Wonderland says, 'that you married into our family.'”
“Alice of Wonderland—?” doubted Beatrice.
The Cardinal waved his hand.
“Oh, if you prefer, Punch. Everything in English is one or the other.”
Beatrice laughed. “It was the I of which especially surprised my English ear,” she explained.
“I am your debtor for two hundred lire. I cannot quarrel with you over a particle,” said he.
“But why,” asked she, “why did you give yourself such superfluous pains? Why couldn't you ask me for the money point-blank? Why lure it from me, by trick and device?”
The Cardinal chuckled.
“Ah, one must keep one's hand in. And one must not look like a Jesuit for nothing.”