“I don’t want it, thank you, Beppo. I only wanted to look at it again. Then if you did not buy it at Milan, how did you get it?”
The more she looked at it, the more she felt certain that it was the box she had seen on the evening of her arrival at La Solitude.
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you”; he hesitated a moment, then said frankly: “This box was a present from mamma. As a matter of fact, she gave it me yesterday, when you went off to see Cristina in the kitchen. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” said Lily in a low voice. “I remember when you mean.” And she handed the box back to him.
“I confess,” went on Beppo, “that I did not in the least understand why there should be any mystery about it! But, of course, I could not contradict mamma when she came out with that absurd tale of my having bought the box in Milan last year.”
At last they reached La Solitude. “No, I won’t come in,” said Beppo, shaking his head. “I’ve got to go back to the Hidalgo Hotel, and take the Marchesa for a drive before it gets pitch dark.”
“I hope I haven’t made you late!” exclaimed Lily, for as a matter of fact it was now after five o’clock.
“Oh, no. I shall say that something went wrong—things are always going wrong with this old car! It’s high time the Marchese had a new one. But he is careful! Carefulness is an Italian virtue—I call it an Italian vice!”
“Aunt Cosy will be dreadfully disappointed,” said the girl.
And then Beppo suddenly changed his mind. The thought of spending even a few more minutes in Lily Fairfield’s company was pleasant to him. He would tell the Marchesa that he had had a bad puncture.