“What is a fee, Molly?” questioned Weezy aside.
“Money paid for work, dear. See, papa is taking out his purse, so is Captain Bradstreet; they’re going to give some French coins to the servants.”
“To get the servants to move out of the way,” interposed Paul archly. “They’ll hand each of them a small sum to make them ‘move on,’ as you do to organ-grinders.”
Here the carriage drove up, and the party hastened to catch the train for Rouen. The train was composed of several small black cars or coaches, which Kirke declared looked like a row of Saratoga trunks in mourning. Each coach was divided widthwise into compartments, having on either side a door with a sliding glass panel at the top.
Captain Bradstreet was fortunate enough to secure a vacant compartment which would just accommodate the party, and The Happy Six were soon quietly ensconced in the front seat with their backs toward the engine.
Miss Evans sat opposite Paul and gazed abstractedly out of the window, hardly lifting her eyes from the trim green hedge that bordered the railway track. Once—they were then near Rouen—he saw her start nervously and press her hand to her left side, as if to assure herself that the reticule was in its place.
“How she does clutch that old bag,” he whispered in Kirke’s ear, as they stopped at the station. “Probably the conductor takes her for a mail-carrier.”
“Rouen is a famous old city, Molly; I hope you’ll learn all you can about it,” said Mr. Rowe wearily, as they alighted at the hotel.
He had not recovered yet from the fatiguing sea voyage, and as soon as they had engaged their rooms at Hotel d’Angleterre, he went to lie down.
When shown to their own apartment, Molly and Pauline exclaimed at the number of looking-glasses it contained. Even the upper halves of the windows were mirrors; and in trying to gaze out upon the river Seine, Pauline was surprised to see only her own face.