“Oh, but my uncle will wish to thank you,” she exclaimed, looking up, with a kind of start. “Will you not come in? I--I will see whether he is disengaged.” She made a tentative movement towards the door. She had thawed perceptibly. But even as she thawed, Peter, in his anger, froze and stiffened. “I will see whether he is disengaged.” The expression grated. And perhaps, in effect, it was not a particularly felicitous expression. But if the poor woman was suffering from nervous apprehension--? “I beg you on no account to disturb Cardinal Udeschini,” he returned loftily. “It is not a matter of the slightest consequence.” And even as he stiffened, she unbent. “But it is a matter of consequence to him, to us,” she said, faintly smiling. “We have hunted high and low for it. We feared it was lost for good. It must have fallen from his pocket when he was walking. He will wish to thank you.” “I am more than thanked already,” said Peter. Alas (as Monsieur de la Pallisse has sagely noted), when we aim to appear dignified, how often do we just succeed in appearing churlish. And to put a seal upon this ridiculous encounter, to make it irrevocable, he lifted his hat again, and turned away. “Oh, very well,” murmured the Duchessa, in a voice that did not reach him. If it had reached him, perhaps he would have come back, perhaps things might have happened. I think there was regret in her voice, as well as despite. She stood for a minute, as he tramped down the avenue, and looked after him, with those unusually dark, grave eyes. At last, making a little gesture--as of regret? despite? impatience?--she went into the house. “Here is your snuff-box,” she said to the Cardinal. The old man put down his Breviary (he was seated by an open window, getting through his office), and smiled at the snuff box fondly, caressing it with his finger. Afterwards, he shook it, opened it, and took a pinch of snuff. “Where did you find it?” he enquired. “It was found by that Mr. Marchdale,” she said, “in the road, outside the gate. You must have let it drop this morning, when you were walking with Emilia.” “That Mr. Marchdale?” exclaimed the Cardinal. “What a coincidence.” “A coincidence--?” questioned Beatrice. “To be sure,” said he. “Was it not to Mr. Marchdale that I owed it in the first instance?” “Oh--? Was it? I had fancied that you owed it to me.” “Yes--but,” he reminded her, whilst the lines deepened about his humorous old mouth, “but as a reward of my virtue in conspiring with you to convert him. And, by the way, how is his conversion progressing?” The Cardinal looked up, with interest. “It is not progressing at all. I think there is no chance of it,” answered Beatrice, in a tone that seemed to imply a certain irritation. “Oh--?” said the Cardinal. “No,” said she. “I thought he had shown 'dispositions'?” said the Cardinal.