“I demand your pardon, monsieur,” she said, in a particularly rich, sweet voice, and pronouncing the words with a very foreign accent, “but I am so strange at zis place. I want ze small ship yacht Ze Fair Star. You will tell me?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Chris quickly; “one, two, three, four,” he continued pointing to where several graceful-looking yachts swung at their buoys. “That is it, the fourth from the left.”
“Ah, but yes, I see. One—two—tree—four, and zat is Ze Fair Star?”
There was something droll and yet prettily piquant about her way of speaking, and in spite of himself Chris smiled, and the stranger laughed a little silvery laugh.
“I say someting founay, n’est-ce pas?” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” cried Chris. “I don’t think I made myself understood.”
“Ah, perfectly. I am not Engleesh, but I understand. I count one, two, tree, four, and zat is Ze Fair Star, nombair four. Is it not so?”
“Quite right,” said Chris.
“But how shall I get to him?”
“You must go down to the landing-place and hail her, or else hire a boatman to take you to her.”