“Of course I won’t, Uncle Angelo!”
Those who love Lily Fairfield hope that she will live to a good old age, but however long she lives she will never, never forget that shabby little smoking-room of the Utrecht Hotel. And yet what happened there did not seem at the time so very remarkable, memorable, or strange—it was simply very disagreeable and unexpected.
After they had been waiting there perhaps in all five minutes, the door opened, and a huge old man walked into the room. Lily told herself that he looked like a big, shaggy Newfoundland dog—only not so nice! What was impressive about the stranger was a look of age wedded to that of great vitality. His ugly, powerful face bore a strange expression of hesitancy and expectation.
Count Polda bowed, coldly and distantly.
“As I was passing by, I thought, Mr. Vissering, that I would come in and convey to you an invitation from my wife. The Countess will be very pleased if you will come and spend this evening with us.”
There was a pause. By way of answer the old man came close up to where his visitors were standing. He did not even glance at the Count, but he stared at Lily, and there was something so searching in that bold, hard, measuring look that the girl’s own eyes fell before it.
“So this is your niece, Monsieur le Comte?” he said at last, speaking French with a strong, gutteral accent.
“Yes,” replied the Count, rather nervously. “This is Miss Lily Fairfield, my English niece.”
Then the old Dutchman broke into English.
“Is it true,” he asked the girl abruptly, “that the Count is your uncle?”