"Surely," he contended, "a cardinal should know much. Is it
not 'the badge of all our tribe,' as your poet Byron says?"

Beatrice laughed. Then, "Byron--?" she doubted, with a look.

The Cardinal waved his hand--a gesture of amiable concession.

"Oh, if you prefer, Shakespeare. Everything in English is one
or the other. We will not fall out, like the Morellists, over
an attribution. The point is that I should be a good judge of
hats."

He took snuff.

"It's a shame you haven't a decent snuff-box," Beatrice
observed, with an eye on the enamelled wooden one, cheap and
shabby, from which he helped himself.

"The box is but the guinea-stamp; the snuff's the thing.--Was
it Shakespeare or Byron who said that?" enquired the Cardinal.

Beatrice laughed again.

"I think it must have been Pulcinella. I'll give you a lovely
silver one, if you'll accept it."

"Will you? Really?" asked the Cardinal, alert.

"Of course I will. It's a shame you haven't one already."