“Oh,” said Jessie, silenced, but unconvinced.
However, they were not destined to enjoy the beauty of the night in peace, for it was not long before the after-dinner crowd began to pour out on deck and the girls were surrounded by friendly, interested fellow-passengers, who inquired solicitously after Lucile’s health.
Lucile was surprised and touched by these demonstrations, and it was not long before she was chatting naturally and merrily with a jolly little group to whom her father had laughingly introduced her as “the convalescent.”
“Do you see that young man coming toward us?” said Evelyn, nodding in the direction of a tall, spare young fellow, who, with his shock of black hair, long, aquiline nose, and sensitive, thin-lipped mouth, looked decidedly temperamental, even to the most casual observer.
Lucile nodded. “What about him?” she asked.
“He’s a Frenchman,” adding, with a mysterious shake of her head, “Thereby hangs a tale.”
Much to Lucile’s secret annoyance, the young man at her right claimed her attention at that important moment, asking her, inanely, or so she thought, if she could swim.
It was not until an hour later, when most of the passengers had drifted off to different, and often more secluded, parts of the deck, and only three or four remained 83 with them, that Lucile had an opportunity to question her friend.
“I hate mysteries, Evelyn,” she whispered. “What did you mean by ‘thereby hangs a tale’? Explain yourself.”
“I can’t just now,” answered Evelyn. “He might hear us. Anyway, I don’t know very much to tell. He would probably explain for himself if only those old stick-plasters would go away and tend to their own affairs,” and she glared belligerently at the three unconscious gentlemen and young Monsieur Charloix, the Frenchman.