“Old Charlie? Why, old Charlie is short for Monsieur Charloix, of course,” elucidated Phil, with the patronizing air of one speaking to a peculiarly stupid child.
Instantly the girls’ interest in Liverpool harbor waned, as they turned smilingly to greet the historian of last night.
“I see Mademoiselle is entirely recovered from the seasickness,” said he, turning to Lucile. “It is good to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. I suppose you will be glad to get back to France?”
“Oh, very glad, for, though I admire your America, it is not to me like my own country,” said he, smiling.
It was not long before they were joined by other excited fellow-passengers, all talking at once about what they intended to do upon reaching land, and in the babble it was impossible to carry on any but a disjointed conversation, so the girls wisely gave up trying.
Nevertheless, Lucile had been more deeply impressed than any of the rest by the recital of Monsieur’s tragic romance. It seemed, somehow, like the plays their guardian had described to them. Phil, the skeptical, had seemed inclined to think the story over-drawn, but the girls had 105 emphatically disagreed with him, overwhelming him by sheer force of numbers. And way down in Lucile’s heart was the hope that she would, sooner or later, hear the finishing chapter of the romance. Whether this premonition was inspired partly by her own desire or partly by the fact that, sooner or later, they would be in France itself, where they would have the opportunity of following the fortunes of the disconsolate Frenchman, cannot be determined, but certain it was, the premonition was there. As she had said to Jessie at the end of a long and excited discussion the night before, “Stranger things have happened.”
And so, in the girl’s eyes, and, in fact, in the eyes of all who had heard his story, even Phil, the stranger had taken on an added importance, the importance of the chief actor in a romantic drama.
“I would like to help,” Lucile murmured, as the Frenchman excused himself and moved off down the deck. “I never saw any one look so wistful in all my life.”
“No wonder,” said Jessie, in the same tone. “If I had been through all he has, I’d never have lived to tell about it.”