Muriel was resting her elbows on the rail; her glance was fixed upon the distant town.
"He told me," she responded, "that you thought my eyes about the second best within your experience. I hope your experience has been wide."
Von Klausen flushed.
"My experience," he said, gravely, "has, I regret to tell you, been that of most young men."
"Oh!" said Muriel. Her tone showed dislike of all that this implied, but she recalled that Jim had had no such experiences as those to which von Klausen plainly referred, and she suddenly felt, somehow, that this difference between the men did not altogether advance Stainton.
"Nevertheless, dear lady," the Austrian was going on, "the eyes that I thought as beautiful as yours—I did not say more beautiful—were eyes that have long since been shut."
Muriel was now more piqued than before. Had the man been comparing her to a dead fiancée to whom he, living, remained faithful?
"Were they Austrian eyes?" she asked, her own eyes full of obtrusive indifference.
"No; they were Italian. Had you come to Europe three years ago, you would have seen them when you went to the Louvre. They were the eyes that have been given to the Mona Lisa."
Muriel and he were standing apart from the crowd of passengers that watched the unloading of the silver. The girl turned to her companion. Her glance was interested enough now, and she saw at once that his was serious.