“No, I haven’t told Aunt Cosy yet. But she and I quite understand one another.” Lily looked up at him a little defiantly. “She knows that I am an English girl, and that I am used to doing what I wish—and to going about by myself.”
At that moment the Marchesa Pescobaldi detached herself from M. Popeau and came smilingly towards them.
“I fear I must leave this charming scene,” she exclaimed, “for we make an early start to-morrow morning—my husband and I.”
She bent forward, and, to Lily’s astonishment, kissed her warmly. “Good-bye, my little friend!” she said in French. “Perhaps next time we meet in Rome? Do not forget what I said to you to-day. You and I are friends—whatever happens—henceforth!”
Lily felt a sudden feeling of recoil from the beautiful woman. She wondered—wondered—wondered whether the Marchesa really had the Evil Eye? Feeling a little ashamed of herself, she made the curious little symbolic sign with her finger and thumb which M. Popeau had once told her was supposed to avert ill-luck.
Beppo bowed ceremoniously. “A demain, Lily,” he said quietly. And then he escorted the Marchesa out through the mass of slowly-moving people.
Lily watched them threading their way among the crowd; then she looked round, and felt a little bewildered and surprised to find herself close to a table where a big duel was going on between a small group of players and the bank.
Suddenly she saw that M. Popeau and Angus Stewart were standing apart near one of the now closely-curtained windows. They were talking earnestly, and Lily would have been very much surprised had she known what M. Popeau had drawn Angus Stuart aside to say.
“At the risk of offending you, I beg you to forget yourself, my friend. Believe me, she is in danger!”