It was past the hour at which they generally sat down to their simple evening meal. And Lily and the Countess were already in the dining-room when Count Polda walked in and sat down.
His wife was looking at him anxiously. “Is it all right?” she said in English. And he replied in French: “Yes—quite all right. The funeral is at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.” He sighed. “I am hungry!” he exclaimed plaintively.
The Countess got up and went to the sideboard. From there she brought back a beautiful liqueur decanter which Lily knew contained brandy.
“Have a little of this. It will do you good,” she said solicitously.
There was a pause. “Lily is very sorry that she brought all this trouble upon us, Angelo. But it was not her fault, poor child. She did not know any better. We must try and forget this tragedy—and nothing must be said of all this to Beppo, or in front of Beppo.”
“No, indeed!” said the Count.
And then his wife remarked rather suddenly: “I hope you remembered to order a wreath, Angelo?”
“Yes, I did remember.”
“Ah, that is right! I have told Lily that I should like her to go with you to Mr. Ponting’s funeral.”
“That is an excellent idea, Cosy!” The Count smiled. For once he looked really pleased, and Lily told herself, not for the first time, that he was a very odd sort of man.