“I shall go wherever my friend is.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know; I write her Poste Restante. She has been travelling for a long time with a Russian friend,—a lady,” she added, with a jerk.
“I hope you will go to the Victoria,” Von Ibn said slowly; “that is where I always have stay in Zurich.”
“So that we may have our dining-room souvenir in common, I suppose?”
“It is a very nice place,” he cried hotly; “it is not at all common! It is one of the best hotels in Zurich.”
She hastily interposed an explanation of the error in his comprehension of her meaning, and by the time that he understood, the lights of Lucerne were hazing the darkness, while the Rigi and Pilate had each hung out their rope ladder of stars.
“What time do you travel in the morning?” he asked then, turning his eyes downward upon her face.
“By the first express; it goes, I believe, about eight o’clock.”
“I shall not be awake,” he said gloomily.