ld marry a good man, a suitable man--a man who will love you, whom
you will love--and, if possible, a man who will not altogether separate
you from me, who will perhaps love me a little too. It would send me
in sorrow to my grave, if you should marry a man who was not worthy of
you."

"I will guard against that danger by not marrying at all," laughed
Beatrice.

"No--you will marry, some day," said the Cardinal. "And I wish you to
remember that I shall not oppose your marrying--provided the man is a
good man. Felipe will not like it--Guido will pull a long nose--but I,
at least, will take your part, if I can feel that the man is good. Good
men are rare, my dear; good husbands are rarer still. I can think, for
instance, of no man in our Roman nobility, whom I should be content to
see you marry. Therefore I hope you will not marry a Roman. You would be
more likely to marry one of your own countrymen. That, of course,
would double the loss to us, if it should take you away from Italy. But
remember, if he is a man whom I can think worthy of you, you may count
upon me as an ally."

He resumed his walk, reopening his Breviary.

Beatrice resumed her needlework. But she found it difficult to fix her
attention on it. Every now and then, she would leave her needle stuck
across its seam, let the work drop to her lap, and, with eyes turned
vaguely up the valley, fall, apparently, into a muse.

"I wonder why he said all that to me?" was the question that kept posing
itself.

By and by the Cardinal closed his Breviary, and put it in his pocket.
I suppose he had finished his office for the day. Then he came and sat
down in one of the wicker chairs, under the awning. On the table, among
the books and things, stood a carafe of water, some tumblers, a silver
sugar-bowl, and a crystal dish full of fresh pomegranate seeds. It
looked like a dish full of unset rubies. The Cardinal poured some water
into a tumbler, added a lump of sugar and a spoonful of pomegranate
seeds, stirred the mixture till it became rose-coloured, and drank it
off in a series of little sips.

"What is the matter, Beatrice?" he asked, all at once.

Beatrice raised her eyes, perplexed.

"The matter--? Is anything the matter?"

"Yes," said the Cardinal; "something is the matter. You are depressed,
you are nervous, you are not yourself. I have noticed it for many days.
Have you something on, your mind?"

"Nothing in the world," Beatrice answered, with an appe