"I was sure you were. I suppose you don"t understand American girls very well, or perhaps any girls yet. But then few men do, really. Except poets or novelists. And you"re not a poet or a novelist?"
"Rather not!"
"You speak as though I"d asked if you were a pick-pocket. Do you despise writers?"
"I"d be sorry to be one. Wouldn"t you?" He ventured this question, which, if answered, might after all send them on the way towards a more friendly understanding. But he seemed destined to put himself in the wrong--although the girl laughed.
"I _am_ one," she said, "I write stories."
"You"re chaffing."
"No, I"m not. Why should you think so?"
"Oh, well, because you don"t look as if you wrote."
"Thank you. I suppose you mean that for a compliment. But women who write aren"t scare-crows nowadays, if they ever were."
"Well, anyhow, you"re too young."
"I"ve been writing stories--and getting them published, too, ever since I was sixteen. That"s some years ago now. Please don"t say you wouldn"t have thought it! That would be too obvious even for an average American"s idea of an average Englishman."
"Are you an average American?"
"Are you an average Englishman?"
"Is it fair to answer one question with another?"
"It"s said to be American. Didn"t you know that?"
"No," said Loveland. "As you thought, I don"t know much about Americans yet. I"m going over to the States to learn."
"The States! How English that sounds! We think we"re all of America--all that"s worth talking about in ordinary conversation. But, by the way, this isn"t ordinary conversation, is it? It began with--something to be punished for, on your part; and a wish to punish on mine. It"s gone on--because, being a writing person, I suppose, I"m always trying for new points of view, at any cost. You thought I"d taken your chair--as if it were a point of view. I believe you really did think that."
"I did," admitted Val.
"I wonder why? My aunt"s name is on it."
"Oh," said Loveland.
"See," went on the girl, leaning forward, and displaying the label in the deck-steward"s handwriting.
"I do see," said Val. "But that happens to be my name."
"Loveland?"
"Yes."
The girl blushed brightly. And she was more attractive than ever when she blushed. "Oh, how very odd! Then perhaps this _is_ your chair! How perfectly horrid." She began to unwind herself from the rug which was wrapped round her as a chrysalis round an incipient b.u.t.terfly.
"Please don"t get up." Loveland"s tone was almost imploring. "Do keep the chair. I want you to keep it."
"Thank you very much. But I don"t want to keep it, if it"s yours, and I think now it probably is. If it weren"t, you wouldn"t have expected to find it waiting for you in this particular place?"
"But you expected to find yours here."
"No, it wasn"t that. But as I was pa.s.sing, I saw my aunt"s name on the back of a chair, and because the deck-steward had been told to put one in a nice sheltered place, I took it for granted that this was hers. I didn"t know there was another Loveland on the pa.s.senger list."
"I noticed there was a Mrs. Loveland," said Val, "but didn"t think much about it, as she wasn"t likely to turn out a relation of mine. And my name isn"t on the list, I came in the place of--another man."
As he made this explanation, with a slight pause which meant the recollection of his promise to Jim Harborough, Major Cadwallader Hunter went by, walking slowly; and, having long-distance ears, heard as he pa.s.sed. He was waiting for his chance to "n.o.bble" Lord Loveland; and afterwards he remembered those few last words which he had caught. He seldom forgot anything which could possibly matter, even though it might be of seeming insignificance at the time.
"I"ll go and look for the _other_ Loveland chair," said the girl.
"You must do nothing of the sort," exclaimed Val.
"Oh, it"s easy to see you"re an Englishman. American men don"t order us about like that."
Loveland laughed. "I didn"t order you about. I ordered you to sit still."
"That"s just as bad. You have the air of being used to give orders."
"I am. You see, I"m a soldier."
"Oh, what a relief. I began to be afraid you were a duke."
Loveland had the unusual sensation of feeling comparatively unimportant.
When the girl came to find out who he was, she would know that he was less than a duke. And if he had the air of being a duke, she had the air of thinking no duke could possibly be superior to any self-respecting American.
As he reflected upon this extreme point of view, a deck-steward appeared, and was summoned by the girl. She wished to know the situation of the second Loveland chair, and which of the two was her aunt"s, which this gentleman"s--Mr. Loveland"s.
"Or ought I to speak of you as Captain Loveland?" she broke off to ask.
"I"m not a captain yet," answered Val. He did not explain that neither was he "Mr." He left her to discover that fact for herself by and by, as he hoped she would discover a good many other things connected with him.
Because by this time he had quite decided that, be she rich or be she poor, he would see a good deal of Mrs. Loveland"s niece during the voyage to New York. Afterwards--but then, why begin now to think of an afterwards?
CHAPTER SIX
Catspawing
When the chair of Mrs. Loveland had been indicated, as it soon was by a tactless deck-steward, the girl was obstinate in her determination to seek it. Val went with her, carrying the rug and the book; but as there was no vacant place on either side of the new chair, he was obliged presently to go back to his own. And it was on the way back that Major Cadwallader Hunter"s chance came.
"Lord Loveland, I see you don"t remember me," he began, attaching himself to the younger man, with an air of "should auld acquaintance be forgot" in the bend of his back, and speaking in a low tone, that his words might not be heard by any curious ears. Then he hurried on, lest Loveland should deny him with undesirable frankness: "Quite natural you shouldn"t remember" (which indeed it was, as they had never come within miles of each other) "but I feel I"ve some right to remind you of my existence, because we"re connected in a way. I am Major Cadwallader Hunter----"
"Never heard the name in my life," said Loveland rudely. He thought that his uninvited companion looked like a bore, and he had never yet suffered a bore gladly. A flash of reflection told him that he possessed no envelope in Jim"s or Betty"s handwriting addressed to Major Cadwallader Hunter. The fellow would hardly be so mildly ingratiating if he were a millionaire with daughters to guard, and Val resented a trumped-up claim of connection.