It was a quaint, almost a grotesque, simile, but somehow it impressed Angus Stuart deeply.
“From to-morrow,” went on M. Popeau, “Beppo Polda will be living at La Solitude. They will be together all day long, and he will make love to her all day long. His mother will help and abet him in every conceivable way possible.”
“But what am I to say to her? She will think me impertinent—and she will be right! I have no standing in this matter, Popeau—would to Heaven I had!”
“In your place,” said Hercules Popeau impressively, “I would sacrifice myself for her.”
“Heaven knows I am willing to do that!”
“Are you really willing, my friend? Are you willing to put your pride in your pocket? Are you willing to tell her that you love her, and that it is because you love her, even without hope, that you are entitled to warn her against this man? Though the Scotch, as I have found out many a time during the late war, think themselves in every way superior to the English (I do not say that they are, or that they are not, but that is their conviction), still you and she are bound by a common language. Implore her, above all, to do nothing in a hurry. Do not let Beppo Polda go back to Rome engaged to be married to Lily Fairfield.”
The matter of fact words made the young man feel sick with apprehension, anger, and jealousy. Why, Popeau spoke as if the matter was already almost settled!
“It has not occurred to you, I suppose, that Beppo Polda may be making love to her with no thought of marriage?” Angus Stuart said slowly.
“I confess that was my first conviction. When I spoke to Miss Lily a few days ago I thought Beppo Polda was simply amusing himself—nothing more! But I have a very good reason for having changed my mind.”
As he uttered these words he walked across to where Lily was still standing watching the play, and feeling, deep in her heart, forlorn, and a little depressed.