The Cardinal's Snuff Box

Beatrice frowned for an instant, putting this consideration in

its place, in her troubled mind. Then suddenly a light of

intense, of immense relief broke in her face.

"Thank goodness!" she sighed. "I had forgotten. No, he does

n't dream that. But oh, the fright I had!"

"He'll tell you, all the same," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.

"No, he'll never tell me now. I am forewarned, forearmed. I

'll give him no chance," Beatrice answered.

"Yes; and what's more, you'll marry him," said her friend.

"Kate! Don't descend to imbecilities," cried Beatrice.

"You'll marry him," reiterated Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, calmly.

"You'll end by marrying him--if you're human; and I've seldom

known a human being who was more so. It's not in flesh and

blood to remain unmoved by a tribute such as that man has paid

you. The first thing you'll do will be to re-read the novel.

Otherwise, I'd request the loan of it myself, for I 'm

naturally curious to compare the wrought ring with the virgin

gold--but I know it's the wrought ring the virgin gold will

itself be wanting, directly it's alone. And then the poison

will work. And you'll end by marrying him."

"In the first place," replied Beatrice, firmly, "I shall never

marry any one. That is absolutely certain. In the next place,

I shall not re-read the novel; and to prove that I shan't, I

shall insist on your taking it with you when you leave to-day.

And finally, I'm nowhere near convinced that you're right about

my being . . . well, you might as well say the raw material,

the rough ore, as the virgin gold. It's only a bare

possibility. But even the possibility had not occurred to me

before. Now that it has, I shall be on my guard. I shall know

how to prevent any possible developments."

"In the first place," said Mrs. O'Donovan Florence, with equal

firmness, "wild horses couldn't induce me to take the novel.

Wait till you're alone. A hundred questions about it will come

flocking to your mind; you'd be miserable if you had n't it to

refer to. In the next place, the poison will work and work.

Say what you will, it's flattery that wins us. In the third

place, he'll tell you. Finally, you'll make a good Catholic of

him, and marry him. It's absurd, it's iniquitous, anyhow, for

a young and beautiful woman like you to remain a widow. And

your future husband is a man of talent and distinction, and

he's not bad-looking, either. Will you stick to your title,

now, I wonder? Or will you step down, and be plain Mrs.

Marchdale? No--the Honourable Mrs.--excuse me--'Mr. and the

Honourable Mrs. Marchdale.' I see you in the 'Morning Post'

already. And will you

continue to live in Italy? Or will you come back to England?"