They were standing now at the extreme end of the grass path. From there, in the daytime, was a beautiful view of sea, sky, and coastline, towards France; and Beppo began telling her some curious stories of his ancestors, who had been almost as great people through the ages, when the Riviera belonged to Italy, as were the Grimaldis on their frowning rock.
At last, at her suggestion, they turned and walked slowly back to the house. The Countess had sat up for them, and as they came into the salon, she looked eagerly into Lily’s face, only to see, with disappointment, that the English girl looked her usual quiet, unemotional self.
After Lily had gone upstairs, Beppo lingered on a moment or two with his mother, and at last he answered the mute inquiry in her eyes.
“I think I have made a good beginning,” he whispered. “But, mamma, it is no good being in a hurry with Englishwomen! They do not understand! They are frightened and made uneasy if they are what the English call ‘rushed.’ But that, mamma, is no disadvantage in the long run.”
“In the long run?” echoed his mother, puzzled.
“A man does not wish the damsel who is to be his wife to be too forthcoming,” he said, quoting an old Italian proverb.
She nodded. What Beppo said was perfectly true.
Lily got up long before Beppo was astir, and her heart was soon singing for joy, for she had gone to meet the postman, and had received her first love-letter.
Angus Stuart had compromised with his conscience by having no beginning to his letter, but he had not been able to keep back what was now filling his heart, and to Lily it was a perfect letter. He had added a long postcript: “I had no intention of trying to see you to-day, but Papa Popeau is determined to see Count Beppo Polda at close quarters, and so I couldn’t prevent his making the proposal that we should all meet at lunch.”