For a reason that neither could have explained they did not speak on their way to the room, and, after they had entered it, von Klausen shutting the door behind them and switching on the electric light, this silence continued until it became almost committal. Muriel laid off her wraps and sank into a wide chair at some distance from the window. It was she that was first to speak. She spoke, however, with an effort, and she sought refuge in platitude.
"I am tired," she said; and then, as von Klausen did not reply, she added: "Yes, after all, I find that I am very tired."
"It has been," said the Austrian, "a difficult day for you."
There was again silence. He stood before her, slim, erect, more boyish than ever, his face, none the less, rather pale and set, and his eyes narrowed.
"I wonder what can have happened to Jim," she at last managed to say.
"Only what has happened to us. He—I think he will be here soon."
Von Klausen was looking at her. She wished that he would not do that. She wished that there would be an end to these interruptions of silence. She wished devoutly that Jim would return.
"It—it is rather close here," she said.
"Do you think it close?" he responded. He did not take his narrowed eyes from her. He did not move.
"Yes," she answered. "Will you—will you be so good as to open the window?"