"If you had paid any more than the merest pretence of attention to me last night, you would have remembered the name—no"—she laughed again—"no, perhaps after all I didn't mention it, I'm not sure I hadn't forgotten it myself; but he is the fisherman who took me to Father Anton here, you know—the one I told you might possibly do as a boatman for us while we were here."
"Great grief! Do as a—boatman!" ejaculated Henry Bliss weakly. "You, Monsieur le Curé, what time do these fishermen return?"
"But anytime, now," Father Anton answered. "The boats go out very early in the morning."
"Good!" Henry Bliss pushed the curé impetuously toward the door. "Then, you and I, Father Anton, will go right back to the village and be there when he comes in."
"But"—Father Anton was quite bewildered—one was literally carried off one's feet—were they all alike, these Americans! "But," he protested helplessly, as he was being pulled through the door, "but if the boats are already in, and since mademoiselle said he was coming here, then—"
"Then we will meet him on the road"—they were already out of the house. "Now, then, Monsieur le Curé, if you are a loyal Frenchman, step out quickly, for this is the greatest day in the history of France, the greatest day, I tell you, in the"—the voice died away in the distance.
Marie-Louise had not moved. She was still standing in the centre of the room, a strangely spellbound, dumfounded little figure.
"Mademoiselle," she ventured timidly, "what—what is—"
"I am sure I do not know," said Myrna languidly. "Have you no shoes or stockings?"
Marie-Louise glanced perplexedly at her small, bare feet.