"She will be a lucky woman," she said carelessly.
For a little while the smart figure in its astrakhan tunic and scarlet riding-breeches walked on beside Galva in silence. During the two months of their acquaintance, Lieutenant Mozara had found himself irresistibly attracted by this beautiful girl from England, and the task imposed upon him during the last week by Señor Dasso had been irksome and distasteful in the extreme. Since the eventful night of the marked cards the two men had not met, but Dasso would soon be getting impatient, and Mozara had during the last few days learnt much respecting Miss Baxendale's presence in San Pietro, and he suspected more.
He found himself between two stools, his fear of Dasso and the unbounded ambition that his suspicions of Galva's parentage had roused in him. As the accepted suitor of the girl by his side he would be in a strong position—strong enough, perhaps, to defy his enemy. But he told himself he must speak before her secret was known, it would be impossible after.
These thoughts ran quickly through his brain as they walked along the crowded promenade. Then, impetuous as ever, he bent his head until his lips all but touched a tendril of dark hair that had strayed from under the fascinating toque that Galva wore.
"You think so, really, Miss Baxendale, that she will be a lucky woman. Will you be she?"
In a moment the little face became white and set.
"Lieutenant Mozara!"
"Is it so strange, then, that I should have learnt to love you? We of the South do not hesitate to speak where our hearts are concerned. I ask you, is it strange?"
"I—I—don't know how to answer you, lieutenant, I only know that—that——Oh! I didn't expect this."
"Do you dislike me, Miss Baxendale?"