She could not but be aware that Beppo was looking at her with a bolder, franker admiration in his eyes than any Englishman or even Frenchman would have done.
They hurried down through the orange grove, to see on the clearing, which always recalled to the girl the dreadful morning when she had found George Ponting’s body, a large open touring-car, in which were seated a lady and a gentleman.
As they emerged from the wood, the lady stood up—and Lily gazed at the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.
The Marchesa Pescobaldi was tall and slender, her face was a perfect oval, and her complexion had a delicate, camelia-like bloom, while her silvery grey hair was abundant, and beautifully dressed.
She looked neither old nor young. Her glorious beauty might almost have been described as of an ageless type. As for her grey hair, it set off her flawless complexion, and intensified the dark fire of her large eyes. She made Lily feel curiously young and unimportant.
As the Count and Countess appeared she called out the English word “Welcome!” and then she threw a long, intense, critical glance at Lily Fairfield.
The English girl made a very dainty and delightful picture against the dark-green, glossy leaves, and the Marchesa Pescobaldi noticed that she walked with a graceful, assured carriage. For a long flashing moment Lily’s hazel eyes and the full, dark, brilliant orbs of the older woman crossed like swords, and Lily felt a queer thrill go through her as she remembered what Aunt Cosy had said. Had the Marchesa really the evil eye.
Lily looked shyly at the man who was evidently the owner of the car. The Marchese Pescobaldi was very thin and very yellow—much, indeed, Lily’s idea of what an Italian nobleman would look like. He seemed in a great hurry to be off, and they all settled down into the car very quickly, the three ladies behind, the three men in front. The Marchesa sat between the Countess and Lily, and soon they were whirling on, sometimes zig-zagging along rather rough roads, Beppo driving with great skill and judgment.
Lily sat well back, enjoying the drive, while her two companions talked together, speaking very quickly in French. Now and again she caught a word or two of what they were saying in the rushing wind.
But she was not thinking of the Countess Polda and of the Italian lady who now sat next to her. She was wondering, with a touch of discomfort, how she could manage, now that Beppo was here, to communicate with M. Popeau and Captain Stuart. Somehow she felt that it would not be as easy as it had been hitherto. Perhaps she might write M. Popeau a little note, saying how very grateful she was for all his kindness over the sad business in which they had been so curiously associated, and explaining that, owing to Count Beppo’s arrival, she was likely to be a good deal engaged the next few days.