S for M. Popeau, who was looking about him trying to find out if any changes had taken place in five very long years, he was telling himself, for perhaps the thousandth time in his life, what very queer, odd people the British were!
He liked them, even better than he had done when, as a young man, he had met with a good deal of kindness in England. But still, how queer to think that a nice girl—a really nice girl—should permit such a stranger as was this Captain Stuart to call on her—without any kind of proper introduction. He hoped her Italian friends—or were they relations?—would not misunderstand. He feared they certainly would do so, unless she pretended—but somehow he did not think she would do that—that the young man was an old acquaintance, someone who had known her at home, in her uncle's house.
And then his quaint, practical French mind began to wonder whether Captain Stuart was well off—whether his affections were already engaged—whether, in a word, he would, or would not, make a suitable husband for this so charming girl?
Sad to say, M. Popeau's peculiar walk in life during the war-worn years had made him acquainted with the fact that it sometimes happens that quite delightful-looking Englishmen are capable of behaving in a very peculiar manner when in a foreign country, and when in love!
He turned around abruptly. Captain Stuart was already some way off; and the Frenchman's eyes softened as they rested on the slender figure of the girl now standing by his side. She looked so fresh, so neat, too—in spite of the long, weary, dirty journey from Paris.
Lily, who, when she thought of her appearance at all, was rather aware that she was clad in a pre-war coat and skirt, would have been surprised and pleased had she known how very well dressed she appeared in this middle-aged Frenchman's eyes—how much he approved of the scrupulously plain black serge coat and skirt and neat little toque—how restful they seemed after the showy toilettes and extraordinary-looking hats worn by the fair, and generally eccentric, Parisiennes with whom fate brought him in constant contact.
A victoria drawn by two wiry-looking, raw-boned little steeds dashed down upon them. M. Popeau put up his hand, and the horses drew up on their haunches.
Giving the porter a very handsome tip, M. Popeau helped Lily into the carnage and then got in himself. “La Solitude!” he called out to the driver.
The man pointed with his whip to the mountain sky-line.
“Twenty-five francs,” he exclaimed, “and that only because I wish to oblige monsieur and madame! I ought to ask fifty francs. It's a devil of a pull up there!” He rapped out the words with an extraordinary amount of gesticulation.
Lily had had some trouble in following what he said, but her experience with the Belgians stood her in good stead. A pound for what she believed must be a short drive? That seemed a great deal.
She turned in some distress to her companion. “Pray don't come with me,” she exclaimed. “The man will take me there all right. I quite understood all he said.”
“Of course I'm going to take you there,” said M. Popeau. “My lunch will taste all the better for a little waiting. But you? Will you not change your mind and come and lunch at the Hôtel de Paris, mademoiselle?”
Poor Lily! She felt sorely tempted. But she shook her head.
And then something rather curious happened. A taxicab passed slowly by. M. Popeau stood up and hailed it. He took out of his pocket-book a dirty ten-franc note. “Here, my friend,” he said, addressing their astonished driver, “it is too great a pull for your gallant little steeds, so we will take that taxi. Help me to transfer the young lady's luggage.”
No sooner said than done, in spite of a very sulky protest from the taxi-driver, who had not the slightest wish to take on a new fare. He had brought a party out to Monte Carlo from Mentone, and was going back there.
“You should be glad, very glad indeed, my good boy,” exclaimed M. Popeau, “to have the chance of earning twenty-five francs by a few moments' drive. Come, come, be amiable about it! You know perfectly well that you are bound to take me by the law.”
“Not in Monaco,” said the man sullenly. “The law is not the same in France as in Monaco.”
“If you are a Monegasque,” exclaimed M. Popeau, “then you must be well acquainted with my friend, M. Bouton.”
The man's manner changed, and became suddenly cringing.
“Aha! I thought so!” M. turned to Lily. “My friend Bouton is Police Commissary here,” he observed significantly.
“Where do you want me to go?” asked the man, in a resigned tone.
“To La Solitude.”