HE moment Lily found herself alone with M. Popeau, forming part of the crowd of walkers who were all on their way to the Casino, she exclaimed, a little nervously. “Wasn't it an extraordinary coincidence that Beppo Polda should have exactly the same gold snuff-box as that which poor Mr. Ponting bought from an old woman gambler?”
“Extraordinary indeed,” answered the Frenchman drily. “I wish you'd ask him the exact date of his purchase of it, Mademoiselle.”
“I will,” said Lily. Then something prompted her to add, “I hope you like Beppo Polda? I can't quite make him out, yet he seems so very much nicer than I expected him to be.”
M. Popeau evaded her question. “I agree with you,” he said; “he is very much nicer than one would expect the son of either his father or his mother to be. Also, Mademoiselle, he is extremely, quite exceptionally, handsome.”
He looked down at her thoughtfully. “No man can ever tell,” he said; “not even the extremely foolish man who prides himself on his knowledge of the feminine heart, how far good looks influence—or don't influence—a woman when she is considering a member of my sex!”
Lily laughed, and blushed. The problem had never been put to her before.
“I suppose one can't help being rather affected by a human being's outward appearance,” she answered; then added, with a little smile on her pretty face: “At any rate, men are very much influenced by appearance, aren't they, M. Popeau?”
“I'm afraid that can't be denied! But tell me—if you don't think the question indiscreet—does a young lady ever look at a good-looking man, and long to know him? That, I need hardly tell you, is what many a man—nay, almost every man—does do at times with regard to a beautiful woman!”
“I can't imagine any nice girl feeling like that about an entire stranger,” began Lily hesitatingly.
“What a wonderful word is that English word 'nice'!” said M. Popeau reflectively. “It may mean such a very great deal, or nothing at all. It is—it is”
“I know exactly what you mean,” exclaimed Lily. “The word 'nice' is certainly a camouflage word!”
“That's it!” cried M. Popeau, delighted. “You've put it exactly, Mademoiselle! But supposing I were to tell you—to return to what we were talking about—that there are very, very few nice girls in the world?”
“I shouldn't believe you!” cried Lily stoutly.
“Supposing I were also to tell you,” went on M. Popeau gravely, “that a great many women you would probably describe as nice do not only pick out a handsome man and feel that they would like to know him, but that they go further—that sometimes they actually make the first advances, and do strike up some kind of acquaintance with him? Supposing I were to prove that to you?”
Lily looked and felt uncomfortable. She did not quite know what to say.
“Take your cousin, Count Beppo Polda,” went on M. Popeau meditatively. “I should think that ever since he reached man's estate he has been—shall we say pursued?—by pretty ladies desiring his friendship. Any girl who marries Beppo Polda must make up her mind to endure the torments of jealousy. I suspect,” said M. Popeau, looking down into Lily's open, flushed, ingenuous, and, yes, exceedingly pretty face, “that you, Mademoiselle, are among the few happy human beings in Monte Carlo who really do not know what jealousy is?”
Lily hesitated. “It's quite true,” she said slowly; “I don't remember ever feeling jealous—not really jealous!”
M. Popeau drew a long breath. “That shows you have never been in love,” he said quietly. “But to return to Count Beppo. I happen to know that he is acquainted with one lady who very often does him the honour of being jealous of him.”
“Poor Beppo!” said Lily. “How horrid for him!” Then—for this little bit of gossip interested her very much—“Is Beppo in love, M. Popeau?”
“He has been in love for a very long time,” answered her companion gravely.
Lily felt thrilled, and yes, just a trifle disappointed.
“Do you mean,” she said, “that Beppo is engaged? If so, I'm sure his parents don't know it.”
“Engaged? Oh no”; the Frenchman looked curiously surprised. “When I said that Count Beppo Polda is in love, I mean the phrase in a general sense. He is in love with love”
“Oh! Is that all?” Lily felt relieved.
