“Then you should all have changed cars at Bologna, and taken seats in a Venice car.”
“Yes,” agreed Patty; “that’s where the mistake occurred. And all because neither father nor I understand Italian. I daresay the guard announced that,—he was shouting all sorts of directions,—but of course, I didn’t understand him, and father didn’t either. And, too, I daresay father was asleep. You know, we all thought we were going directly through to Venice, so we spent the evening as pleasantly as we could, never dreaming we had to change cars or anything.”
“Yes, that explains it all, Miss Fairfield, and you have proved yourself a most sensible and capable young woman to manage as well as you have done. An Italian city is no place for two girls alone.”
“I know it, Mrs. Ponderby. Don’t think I didn’t realise the seriousness of it all. But I did the best I could. You know I am an American.” Patty said this so proudly that the Englishwoman gave her a look of admiration.
“True,” she said; “an English girl might not have been so brave.”
“No, I wasn’t,” confessed Flo; “I depended on Patty, for I knew she could take care of things if anybody could.”
“But,” said Patty, suddenly; “think of father! When he tried to return to us, and couldn’t find us, what do you suppose he did!”
“He couldn’t do anything,” said Mrs. Ponderby, “except to find out that you had gone on to Milan.”
“He couldn’t find that out,” said Patty, slowly, “unless he found some one who could explain it to him in English. You see, it’s quite complicated, with the divided train and all. And besides, father was nearly frantic with worry about us.”
“Yes, he must have been,” said Mrs. Ponderby, gravely. “But he could do nothing at all, except to go on to Venice. He’s there now, of course. Shall you not telegraph him that you are safe?”