At last Angus Stuart began to speak, but there was something cold, almost icy, in his voice.
“I know I haven’t a right to interfere with anything you do, still less to criticise your behaviour, Miss Fairfield——”
“Why do you say that?” She felt sharply hurt and also angry. It did not look as if her companion was going to give her any opportunity of being “kind.”
The man walking by her side was looking down into her upturned face with lowering eyes. She had not known that Angus Stuart could look at anyone as he was looking at her now. It was almost as if he hated her! Her lip quivered. She made a great effort over herself—she must not show him how pained she felt.
“The truth is,” he said abruptly, “I couldn’t stand the way that fellow Beppo Polda behaved to you to-night. I thought him such a cad to talk as he did! Popeau has found out that he hasn’t at all a good reputation in Rome. He makes love to every woman he meets!”
While he was saying those words the speaker was cursing himself for a fool. This was not the way he had meant to speak. He had meant to warn Lily in quiet, measured accents of the danger she was running.
“M. Popeau is prejudiced against Beppo Polda.” She spoke with a good deal of spirit, though she felt on the brink of tears. “As for his manner, a great many foreigners have that sort of manner. Look what absurd compliments M. Popeau used to pay me on our journey from Paris! Beppo may have a bad reputation, but the Pescobaldis are devoted to him. I’ve made friends with the Marchesa—she’s quite a nice woman.”
“Is she indeed?” There was a depth of wordless scorn in the Scotsman’s now steadied voice.
“Why, you don’t know her—you know nothing about her! You’re very prejudiced too,” cried Lily.
“Perhaps I am prejudiced,” he said curtly.