"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.

"That was a mistake. He has shown none. He is a very tiresome

and silly person. He is not worth converting," she declared

succinctly.

"Good gracious!" said the Cardinal.

He resumed his office. But every now and again he would pause,

and look out of the window, with the frown of a man meditating

something; then he would shake his head significantly, and take

snuff.

Peter tramped down the avenue, angry and sick.

Her reception of him had not only administered an instant

death-blow to his hopes as a lover, but in its ungenial

aloofness it had cruelly wounded his pride as a man. He felt

snubbed and humiliated. Oh, true enough, she had unbent a

little, towards the end. But it was the look with which she

had first greeted him--it was the air with which she had waited

for him to state his errand--that stung, and rankled, and would

not be forgotten.

He was angry with her, angry with circumstances, with life,

angry with himself.

"I am a fool--and a double fool--and a triple fool," he said.

"I am a fool ever to have thought of her at all; a double fool

ever to have allowed myself to think so much of her; a triple

and quadruple and quintuple idiot ever to have imagined for a

moment that anything could come of it. I have wasted time

enough. The next best thing to winning is to know when you are

beaten. I acknowledge myself beaten. I will go back to

England as soon as I can get my boxes packed."




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024