Back to Paris! She had taken him on this nerve-destroying journey; she had headed for this place and swerved to that; she had exhausted them both by her unaccountable whims and her switching resolutions—and now she wanted to go back to Paris!
"You said that Paris didn't agree with you, dear," pleaded Stainton.
"I know; but now it will be spring there—real spring—and everyone says that is the most beautiful time of the year in Paris."
"Yet the climate——"
"It will suit me in the spring; I know it will."
"Do you think"—Stainton put his hand upon hers—"do you think that you can rest there: really rest?"
"I know I can. O, Jim, I try to like it here, but I can't speak a word of Italian, and the French of these people is simply awful. I did my best to be good in Innsbruck, but I don't know any German, either, and so I hated that. Do you realise that we've been hurrying—hurrying—hurrying, so that we are really worn to shreds?"
"I know it," said Stainton. He was so travel-wearied that he looked sixty years old.
"I dare say that is what has made me so horrid," said Muriel: "that pull, pull, pull at my nerves. I don't know what's the matter with me; but I'm quite sure that getting back to Paris will be like getting back home."
This is how it came about that, two days later, they were once more quartered at the Chatham.