“And apropos of conversions,” said Beatrice, “see how far we have strayed from our muttons.”
“Our muttons—?” The Cardinal looked up, enquiring.
“I want to know what you think—not of my hat—but of my man.”
“Oh—ah, yes; your Englishman, your tenant.” The Cardinal nodded.
“My Englishman—my tenant—my heretic,” said she.
“Well,” said he, pondering, while the parentheses became marked again,—“I should think, from what you tell me, that you would find him a useful neighbour. Let me see... You got fifty lire out of him, for a word; and the children went off, blessing you as their benefactress. I should think that you would find him a valuable neighbour—and that he, on his side, might find you an expensive one.”
Beatrice, with a gesture, implored him to be serious.
“Ah, please don't tease about this,” she said. “I want to know what you think of his conversion?”
“The conversion of a heretic is always 'a consummation devoutly to be desired,' as well, you may settle it between Shakespeare and Byron, to suit yourself. And there are none so devoutly desirous of such consummations as you Catholics of England—especially you women. It is said that a Catholic Englishwoman once tried to convert the Pope.”
“Well, there have been popes whom it would n't have hurt,” commented Beatrice. “And as for Mr. Marchdale,” she continued, “he has shown 'dispositions.' He admitted that he could see no reason why it should not have been Our Blessed Lady who sent us to the children's aid. Surely, from a Protestant, that is an extraordinary admission?”