“I'm afraid I must be somewhat lacking in decision of character,” he said, with pathetic wonder. Then suddenly he stamped his foot. “Come! An end to this tergiversation. Do it. Do it,” cried his manlier soul. “I will,” he resolved all at once, drawing a deep breath, and clenching his fists. He left the Casino, and set forth to walk to Ventirose. He could not wait for the omnibus, which would not leave till four. He must strike while his will was hot. He walked rapidly; in less than an hour he had reached the tall gilded grille of the park. He stopped for an instant, and looked up the straight avenue of chestnuts, to the western front of the castle, softly alight in the afternoon sun. He put his hand upon the pendent bell-pull of twisted iron, to summon the porter. In another second he would have rung, he would have been admitted.... And just then one of the little demons that inhabit the circumambient air, called his attention to an aspect of the situation which he had not thought of. “Wait a bit,” it whispered in his ear. “You were there only yesterday. It can't fail, therefore, to seem extraordinary, your calling again to-day. You must be prepared with an excuse, an explanation. But suppose, when you arrive, suppose that (like the lady in the ballad) she greets you with 'a glance of cold surprise'--what then, my dear? Why, then, it's obvious, you can't allege the true explanation--can you? If she greets you with a glance of cold, surprise, you 'll have your answer, as it were, before the fact you 'll know that there's no manner of hope for you; and the time for passionate avowals will automatically defer itself. But then--? How will you justify your visit? What face can you put on?” “H'm,” assented Peter, “there's something in that.” “There's a great deal in that,” said the demon. “You must have an excuse up your sleeve, a pretext. A true excuse is a fine thing in its way; but when you come to a serious emergency, an alternative false excuse is indispensable.” “H'm,” said Peter. However, if there are demons in the atmosphere, there are gods in the machine--(“Paraschkine even goes so far as to maintain that there are more gods in the machine than have ever been taken from it.”) While Peter stood still, pondering the demon's really rather cogent intervention, his eye was caught by something that glittered in the grass at the roadside. “The Cardinal's snuff-box,” he exclaimed, picking it up. The Cardinal had dropped his snuff-box. Here was an excuse, and to spare. Peter rang the bell. XXIV And, like the lady in the ballad, sure enough, she greeted his arrival with a glance of cold surprise. At all events, eyebrows raised, face unsmiling, it was a glance that clearly supplemented her spoken “How do you do?” by a tacit (perhaps self-addressed?) “What can bring him here?”