But M. Popeau was not bothering about the view. He was looking with some concern at Lily Fairfield. She seemed a rather pitiful, lonely little figure, standing there in this odd-looking room. Somehow he hated leaving her there!
But the Countess was still talking, in that full, hearty voice of hers. “My husband’s family is of Monaco”—she smiled and showed her strong, good teeth. “In the fourteenth century they were almost as great people as the Grimaldis. Then the Poldas lived in Paris, in Rome, but when we lost our fortune, through unlucky speculations, it seemed simpler to come back to the Count’s native place. Here we have lived—nay, here we have vegetated—ever since!”
When she stopped to take breath, M. Popeau managed to get in his good-bye. “I hope,” he said pleasantly, “that you will allow me to come and pay my respects to you and to Mademoiselle? I will do myself that honour to-morrow, Sunday.”
“We shall always be delighted to see you,” replied the Countess heartily. “But it is a long climb. Still, kind friends sometimes take pity on my loneliness. As for my husband, he is like a goat, he can climb anywhere, he even disdains our good little Monaco carriages.”
“That reminds me that the taxi we had the luck to find is waiting out there just below the orange grove. So I will go out this way,” and M. Popeau walked out through the open window.
A few moments later there came the sound of the taxi turning round on the clearing below—and an acute feeling of loneliness and of depression stole over Lily Fairfield. She realised, suddenly, that she was tired out.
The Countess shut the window firmly, and she pulled down the thick yellow blind. Then she turned to her visitor. “Now,” she said, “now, my little one, what is it you would like to do? I am for the moment very busy.”
Her tone was still affectionate, still pleasant, but Lily felt a slight diminution of cordiality. “Perhaps I had better ask Cristina to show you your room. English ladies lie down a great deal, and you, my poor one, have been ill.”
“What I should like,” said Lily falteringly, “is something to eat, Aunt Cosy. I feel so hungry——” And as she saw a look of perplexity, almost of annoyance, pass over her hostess’s face, she added hurriedly, “Anything would do—some bread-and-butter—a cup of milk—or perhaps an egg.”
“I will see if there is any milk,” said the Countess reluctantly. “Butter, I know we have none—there will be some, I hope, to-morrow morning. As for an egg—yes, I believe Cristina did secure two eggs the day before yesterday. Your uncle and I, dear child, follow the custom of the country; we have our lunch at eleven. I should have expected that you also would have had something to eat at eleven, even in the train—but no matter, I will see what can be done.”