Meanwhile, the deck resounded with those comments which are so very irritating to most lovers of scenery; one long-haired æsthete gave vent to a fresh adjective of admiration about once a minute, till Roy and Cecil were forced to flee from him and to take refuge among the sporting fraternity, who occasionally admitted frankly that it was “a fine view,” but who obtruded their personality far less upon their companions.
“Oh, Roy, how we shall enjoy it all!” said Cecil, as they drew near to the crowded landing-quay.
“I think we shall fit in, Cis,” he said, smiling. “Thank Heaven, you don’t take your pleasure after the manner of that fellow. If I were his traveling companion I should throttle him in a week.”
“Or suggest a muzzle,” said Cecil, laughing; “that would save both his neck and your feelings.”
“Let me have your key,” he said, as they approached the wooden pier; “the custom-house people will be coming on board, and I will try to get our things looked over quickly. Wait here and then I shall not miss you.”
He hastened away and Cecil scanned with curious eyes the faces of the little crowd gathered on the landing-quay, till her attention was arrested by a young Norwegian in a light-gray suit who stood laughing and talking to an acquaintance on the wooden wharf. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with something unusually erect and energetic in his bearing; his features were of the pure Greek type not unfrequently to be met with in Norway; while his northern birth was attested by a fair skin and light hair and mustache, as well as by a pair of honest, well-opened blue eyes which looked out on the world with a boyish content and happiness.
“I believe that is Frithiof Falck,” thought Cecil. And the next moment her idea was confirmed, for as the connecting gangway was raised from the quay, one of the steamer officials greeted him by name, and the young Norwegian, replying in very good English, stepped on board and began looking about as if in search of some one. Involuntarily Cecil’s eyes followed him; she had a strange feeling that in some way she knew him, knew him far better than the people he had come to meet. He, too, seemed affected in the same way, for he came straight up to her, and, raising his hat and bowing, said, with frank courtesy:
“Pardon me, but am I speaking to Miss Morgan?”
“I think the Miss Morgans are at the other side of the gangway; I saw them a minute ago,” she said, coloring a little.
“A thousand pardons for my mistake,” said Frithiof Falck. “I came to meet this English family, you understand, but I have never seen them.”