"I have never seen her more beautiful. And there is not one
single atom of hope for me."

"How do you do?" she said, unsmiling and waited, as who should
invite him to state his errand. She did not offer him her hand
but, for that matter, (she might have pleaded), she could not,
very well: for one of her hands held her sunshade, and the
other held an embroidered silk bag, woman's makeshift for a
pocket.

And then, capping the first pang of his disappointment, a kind
of anger seized him. After all, what right had she to receive
him in this fashion?--as if he were an intrusive stranger. In
common civility, in common justice, she owed it to him to
suppose that he would not be there without abundant reason.

And now, with Peter angry, the absurd little scene began.

Assuming an attitude designed to be, in its own way, as
reticent as hers, "I was passing your gate," he explained,
"when I happened to find this, lying by the roadside. I took
the liberty of bringing it to you."

He gave her the Cardinal's snuff box, which, in spite of her
hands' preoccupation, she was able to accept.

"A liberty!" he thought, grinding his teeth. "Yes! No doubt
she would have wished me to leave it with the porter at the
lodge. No doubt she deems it an act of officiousness on my
part to have found it at all."