"Oh, no!" she protested. "There is the Zwingli Museum, the Hohe Promenade, and the National Museum to see. We mustn't miss them, you know. What would Aunt Ethel say?"
Nor could she permit him to miss them. She seemed to thrive as much upon the labour as if she had been shopping as she used to shop in her unmarried days, and she dragged him after her, a husband more weary than he had often been in his pilgrimages through the Great Desert.
"To-morrow," he yawned, as he flung himself down to sleep, eight hours later, "we shall start for some place where we can rest and see a few real Alps. We'll go to the Engadine."
Muriel was seated at some distance from the bed. She was stooping to loosen her boots, and her hair fell over her face and hid it.
"Don't let's go there," she said. "Let's go to Innsbruck."
"Innsbruck? That's in Austria, isn't it?"
"Is it? Well, what if it is, Jim?"
"I thought you wanted to see Switzerland."
"We've seen it, haven't we?"
"Only a slice of it; and it must be a long and tiresome ride to Innsbruck."