He held the book upon the rail and she obeyed the request. Afterwards he held the page to the light until he was apparently thoroughly assured of some doubtful point, and then put it back in his pocket.
“I shall send you a card Poste Restante at Zurich,” he announced, as the lights of Lucerne blazed up close beside them.
“Be sure that you spell my name right.”
“Yes,” he said, taking out his note-book again; “it is like this, n’est ce pas?” and he wrote, and then showed her the result.
“Yes, that’s it,” she assented.
He continued to regard his book with deep attention.
“It exasperates me to have my name spelled wrong,” she went on; “doesn’t it you?”
“Yes,” he said; “it is for that that I look in my book.”
She came close and looked at what she had written,—“Von Ebn.”
“Isn’t that right?” she asked in surprise.