Muriel dropped one boot and then the other and carried them outside the door.
"Anyhow," she said, returning, "we have seen enough of Switzerland to know what it's like, Jim. I'm awfully tired of it." She came to the bed and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Do you mind, dear?" she added.
"Oh, no," he sighed. "I suppose not. Only let's go to sleep now: I am about done up."
Muriel said nothing to that, but the next morning she assumed the plan to be adopted, and they went to Innsbruck. They went by the way that Franz von Klausen had described to her: by the narrow, mountain-guarded Waldersee, the Castle Lichtenstein, the ruins of Gräphang and, on the great rock that rises over Berschia, the pilgrim-church of St. Georgen.
Jim had tipped the guard to secure, at least for a time, the privacy of their compartment, and the guard, a little fellow with flaring moustaches and a uniform that was almost the uniform of an officer, saluted gravely and promised seclusion. Thus, for some hours, they had the place to themselves, but the train gradually filled, and at last there entered a young Austrian merchant, who insisted upon giving them a sense of his knowledge of English and American literature.
"All Austrians of culture read your Irving," he said; "also your Harte and Twain and Do-nelli."
"Our what?" asked Jim.
"Please?"
"I didn't catch that last name."
"Donelli—Ignatius Donelli."