"Oh, it's easy to see you're an Englishman. American men don't order us about like that."
Loveland laughed. "I didn't order you about. I ordered you to sit still."
"That's just as bad. You have the air of being used to give orders."
"I am. You see, I'm a soldier."
"Oh, what a relief. I began to be afraid you were a duke."
Loveland had the unusual sensation of feeling comparatively unimportant. When the girl came to find out who he was, she would know that he was less than a duke. And if he had the air of being a duke, she had the air of thinking no duke could possibly be superior to any self-respecting American.
As he reflected upon this extreme point of view, a deck-steward appeared, and was summoned by the girl. She wished to know the situation of the second Loveland chair, and which of the two was her aunt's, which this gentleman's—Mr. Loveland's.
"Or ought I to speak of you as Captain Loveland?" she broke off to ask.
"I'm not a captain yet," answered Val. He did not explain that neither was he "Mr." He left her to discover that fact for herself by and by, as he hoped she would discover a good many other things connected with him. Because by this time he had quite decided that, be she rich or be she poor, he would see a good deal of Mrs. Loveland's niece during the voyage to New York. Afterwards—but then, why begin now to think of an afterwards?