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For a moment Loveland was more conceited than he had ever been in his life, – which is saying not a little. He told himself that the girl must have found out who he was, and that this was her artful way of scraping acquaintance. She had taken possession of his chair, with his name upon it, waiting for him to come and claim his property, and expecting the conversation which would be sure to follow.
He was conscious of a shock of disappointment. In spite of the witching, curled eyelashes, he had not fancied her that sort of obvious, flirting girl; and like other spoiled young men a conquest which fell to him easily was less worth making. Nevertheless, he still wanted to know her. No man, even a spoiled one, could help wanting to know a girl with eyes like those: and he intended to go through the whole programme which he believed that she had deliberately planned out for him; yet he wished that she had not made herself so cheap.
The chair next to his was unoccupied, though usurpers were warned off by the name of "Mr. James R. Smythe," boldly painted in black letters across the back. Stretching away to the left was a row of Smythe chairs, which Val did not trouble to count. He merely received the impression of a large family of impending Smythes, and was glad that they were not assembled. Their absence gave him a splendid chance to make the girl with the eyes a present of the flirtation she encouraged.
Val, risking the avalanche of Smythehood which might overwhelm him at any instant, sat down in the empty chair next to his own, expecting the girl to glance up and down, and flutter the coquettish lashes. To his bewilderment her tactics were more subtle. She did not look up at all, but calmly went on reading her book, a volume of disagreeably intellectual suggestion.
This development of the game was interesting, because surprising, but Val still regarded it as a game. He looked at the girl, while she, apparently unconscious of or indifferent to his nearness, slowly turned leaf after leaf. She turned so many that Loveland grew impatient. Besides, a man had begun to walk up and down in front of the line of Smythe chairs, fastening upon him so baleful an eye that he feared at any instant to be dispossessed of his borrowed resting-place.
At last he decided to be bold and wait no longer.
"What am I to do if Mr. James R. Smythe comes along and orders me out?" he asked pleasantly, in a low yet conversational tone.
The girl glanced up for the first time, suddenly and as if startled. She had the air of having been deeply absorbed in her book, and of not being sure that her neighbour had spoken to her. Also she looked extremely young and innocent.
"I said, what am I to do if Mr. James R. Smythe comes along and orders me out?" Val repeated.
"That's what I thought you said," replied the girl, meeting his admiring, quizzical eyes with a somewhat bewildered yet defensive gaze. "But – why should you say it to me?"
"Isn't that rather hard-hearted of you?" asked Loveland.
"I don't understand you at all," said the girl. "You look like a gentleman, so I suppose you can't mean to be rude or impertinent. But if not, you seem to be talking nonsense."
This was straightforward, to say the least, yet her voice was so sweet and girlish, with such a dainty little drawl in it, that the rebuke did not sound as severe as if spoken with sharper accents.
"Of course I don't mean to be rude or impertinent," Loveland defended himself, at a loss for the next move in the game. "But I thought – that is, I mean – you know, that is my chair. I'm delighted you should have it – "
"Your chair?" echoed the girl. "Oh, you are mistaken. No wonder, if you thought that I – but even then, you couldn't have dreamed I'd take it on purpose?"
"No – o, I – " began Loveland, looking guilty.
Her eyes were on him. "You did think so!" she exclaimed. "I see you did. That was why you – and yet I don't see how you could have fancied I should know who you were, unless – Are you a very famous person in the life to which it's pleased London to call you?"
Lord Loveland laughed rather foolishly. But he reddened a little, which made him look boyish, so that the foolishness was rather engaging.
"I think you've punished me enough," he said.
"Then you admit that you deserve to be punished?"
"Perhaps."
"Which means that you did believe I took your chair on purpose."
"I didn't stop to think," said Loveland, telling the truth as usual, but less truculently than usual.
"You are English, aren't you?" the girl asked, looking at him with her brown, bewildering eyes.
"Oh yes," replied Loveland, in a tone which added "Of course." But he would have realised now, if he had not been sure before, that the girl was genuinely ignorant of his important identity.
"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 butterfly.
"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 passing, 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 passenger 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 passed. He was waiting for his chance to "nobble" 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.
Cadwallader Hunter could swallow a snub with a smile, but never would he forgive the snubber.
He smiled now; but if Lord Loveland had not been Lord Loveland —
"I'm a distant relative of Jimmy Harborough's," he explained, "and I generally run over to London for a few weeks in the season. Jim seems to be as popular on your side the water as on his own."
Loveland did not trouble himself to reply. If Jim had thought this alleged relative an interesting or profitable person for him to know, the name of Major Cadwallader Hunter would probably have been on one of the introduction envelopes.
Undismayed by the chilling silence, Cadwallader Hunter still walked by Lord Loveland's side and prattled. His next sentence hinted that he possessed in some degree the quality of clairvoyance.
"I suppose Jim's given you lots of letters," he continued, "but it's not likely there's one to me. I'm a mere bachelor, and therefore must take a back place. Jim would naturally send you to married people with big houses of their own, where they can entertain you. Still, in my own small way, I can be useful to strangers, and should be glad to be useful to you, because in my eyes you don't seem quite a stranger. I am, by the by, a great admirer of your cousin, charming Lady Betty, and if you'll allow me to say so, there's a strong family resemblance between you." (Major Cadwallader Hunter had been out of America during Betty's visit, but had seen her photograph.) "If this is your first time on our side, you don't know the ropes yet, and you must let me tell you anything you care to hear; about people, about places, about hotels; about the sights, should you want to see them. I can begin, for instance, by telling you who is Who on this ship. There are several of our millionaires."
Loveland's handsome young face lost its frozen stare. He had taken a dislike to Cadwallader Hunter, but it was not so serious a dislike that he could not bury it. He wanted to know several things which this man might be able to tell, but most of all he wanted to know about the niece of Mrs. Loveland. As he confessed to her, he had passed over the coincidence of names with indifference, when idly noting it on the passenger-list, thinking that the existence of a Mrs. B. Loveland could not concern the Marquis of that ilk. Now, however, if this know-all, officious sort of person could prove that the lady sprang from the same stock, be she no matter how remote a cutting, it would be pleasant news.
Cadwallader Hunter, who was a student of faces, saw the change on Lord Loveland's features and was relieved, though relief brought no liking. He had begun to be anxious as to the result of the conversation, because a failure to thaw on Loveland's part would have been awkward after certain boasts lately made. Now he saw that he had, as usual, taken the right tack, and that his efforts were destined to succeed.
"I know almost everybody on board," went on the American. "That is, everybody who counts."
"Who is that man walking with the tall girl in grey?" Val deigned to enquire, as his first choice among the beauties of the ship came in sight. "Is he someone of importance?"
Cadwallader Hunter naturally understood that it was the girl, not the man, in whom Loveland was interested. "That is Judson R. Coolidge," he replied, "and it is Miss Elinor Coolidge, his only child, who is with him. He is a rich man, though not one of our richest. Made his money in the wholesale dry goods business in Chicago. But Miss Elinor, whom he adores, 'runs' him (the mother's dead); and as the girl knows her market value, she's induced her father to take a big house in New York and a cottage at Newport. Would you care to meet them?"
"Thanks, yes. A little later," answered Val, very civilly for him.
"There are several other pretty young women on board," said Cadwallader Hunter.
"So I've noticed," said Loveland.
"Ah, men of your country appreciate the charming women of ours! You've carried away many of our fairest flowers. And some of the best worth plucking."
"Is that a pun?" asked Loveland, staring at his companion to see if he had the impudence to mean anything.
Major Cadwallader Hunter tittered. He had an irritating little habit of tittering when he was ingratiating himself with new acquaintances. But it was a most refined titter.
"Oh, dear, I see what you mean. But, no indeed, I was quite innocent of any double entendre. I was merely trying my best to be poetical, I assure you. There was no question of 'plucking' in the international alliances of British titles and American dollars I had in mind. A familiar, and, to my idea, suitable combination. But perhaps you disapprove of international marriages?"
"Not I," said Val.
The tone told Cadwallader Hunter all that he wanted to learn. He now knew, if he had not been practically sure before, that Lord Loveland was in search of a rich wife. He saw his way to earning considerable kudos in playing bear-leader to a young and unusually good-looking British peer, and he determined to become that bear-leader, whether the bear yearned for his leadership or not.
"Miss Coolidge is not the only handsome heiress on board. There are others – there are others," he went on airily. "You have only to point out any young lady whose acquaintance you would like to make, and the thing is a fait accompli."
"Do you know a Mrs. Loveland on the ship?" Val enquired, after a slight hesitation which he could hardly have explained to himself.
Major Cadwallader Hunter shook his head. "Now that you speak of it, I think I do recall there being a Mrs. Loveland on the passenger-list, but – "
"She has a niece," said Val.
"Ah?" The elder man pulled a folded passenger-list out of his pocket, and ran his eye down the "L's." "Then the niece has not the same name. But I'll engage to find out all about the ladies for you, if you're interested in them."
Loveland paused for an instant, on the point of refusing the service. But he reflected that making enquiries about unknown ladies was not a dignified proceeding, and that he would prefer to have Major Cadwallader Hunter undertake it, rather than compromise himself.
"It will be easy for me, as I know so many people," volunteered the American.
"Oh, very well. Thank you," said Loveland, stiffly, with that upward inflection of the voice, which can make a "thank you" as irritating as a mosquito-bite.
