If it came to the point, it was, of course, not true. But Lily told herself quickly that what she was or was not did not concern this odious old man.
“I am on a visit to my aunt, the Countess Polda,” she said quietly.
“Then Madame la Comtesse is English?” asked Mr. Vissering.
That question Lily did not feel called upon to answer. And the Count interposed: “I shall be grateful if you will speak French. I learnt English as a young man, but it is not a language with which I am familiar.”
And then the old Dutchman turned again to Lily, and, speaking this time in French, and with a kind of ogreish look and familiar intonation, which she found very unpleasant and disconcerting, he exclaimed:
“I asked you that question, Mademoiselle, because, as a matter of fact, I inquired of my good new friend here, Count Polda, whether he knew any charming young ladies in Monte Carlo with whom I might make acquaintance. I am on the look-out for a little wife.”
Lily stared at him. What an extraordinarily, disagreeable, ridiculous old man! And what a very odd kind of joke to make to a girl he had only met a few moments ago!
“I have always admired young English ladies very much,” went on the strange old fellow, “and I have here before me a perfect specimen.” He bowed.
It was an ungainly bow, a kind of imitation of the Count’s elegant and graceful salute.
“My niece,” interposed Count Polda quickly, “has just come from London, and she has much that is interesting to say about her happy, prosperous country.”