“Beppo,” she said, and her voice trembled, “do you truly love Lily Fairfield?”
“Yes, I love her,” he said sombrely. “And I have never wanted anything so much, mamma. It is quite true that her money—if, indeed, she is certain to have the fortune in which you so confidently believe—would transform my life from that of an adventurer to that of a successful and happy man,”—he was speaking very seriously now. “But, apart from that fortune, even with only the few thousands we know she possesses, I would accept her as a gift from Heaven, on my knees!”
And if rather ashamed of the emotion he had shown, he added in a lighter tone: “It is time that I settled down. Livia Pescobaldi is always urging me to do so! She was disappointed that I did not marry that ugly American girl last winter.”
There was a pause, and then the Countess said solemnly:
“Has your mother ever failed you, Beppo?”
He was startled, and again he felt oddly moved.
“No, mamma. You’ve performed wonders! And I’ve often racked my brains to know how you did it!”
“I promise you that Lily Fairfield will in time be your wife. But do not be in too great a hurry, my son. Carry out your plan of going to Rome in two or three days, and stay away a little longer than you at first intended to do. Then come back, but not to La Solitude; go to the Hôtel Hidalgo——”
“I am sick of the Hidalgo!” he exclaimed. “If I do what you wish, mamma, I shall ask Madame Sansot to put me up again at the Utrecht Hotel.”
“Not the Utrecht Hotel!” cried his mother hastily. “Surely you have never stayed there? It is a very common, low kind of place.”