A Woman's Will. Warner Anne
Zurich.”
“So that we may have our dining-room souvenir in common, I suppose?”
“It is a very nice place,” he cried hotly; “it is not at all common! It is one of the best hotels in Zurich.”
She hastily interposed an explanation of the error in his comprehension of her meaning, and by the time that he understood, the lights of Lucerne were hazing the darkness, while the Rigi and Pilate had each hung out their rope ladder of stars.
“What time do you travel in the morning?” he asked then, turning his eyes downward upon her face.
“By the first express; it goes, I believe, about eight o’clock.”
“I shall not be awake,” he said gloomily.
“I shall not be, either; but Ottillie will get me aboard somehow.”
“If it was noon that you go, I should certainly come to the Gare,” he said thoughtfully; then he reflected for a short space, and added eagerly, “why do you not go later, and make an excursion by Zug; it is just on your way, and a so interesting journey.”
“I know Zug, and the lake too; I’ve coached all through there.”
“Then it would not again interest you?”
“No; I want to go straight to Molly as fast as I can.”
“To Molli! Where is that? You said to Zurich you went.”
She laughed and explained.
“Molly is the name of my girl friend.”
“Ah, truly.”
Then he was silent, and she was silent, and the lights of Lucerne continued to draw nearer and nearer.
“I wonder if I shall really never see you again,” he said, after a long interval.
“I wonder.”
“It is very unlikely that we shall ever meet again.”
“Very.”
In spite of herself her voice sounded dry.
“Where is your bank address?”
“Deutsches-Filiale, Munich, while I am in this part of the world. But why? Were you thinking of writing me weekly?”
“Oh, no,” he said hastily, “but I might send you a carte-postale sometimes, if you liked.”
She felt obliged to laugh.
“Would you send a colored one, or just one of the regular dix-centime kind,” she inquired with interest.
Von Ibn contemplated her curiously.
“You have such a pretty mouth!” he murmured.
She laughed afresh.
“But with the stamp it is fifteen centimes anyway,” he continued.
“Stamp, what stamp? Oh, yes, the postal card,” she nodded; and then, “I never really expect to see you again, but I’m glad, very glad that I met you, because you have interested and amused me so much.”
“American men are so very stupid, are they not?” he said sympathetically.
“No, indeed,” she cried indignantly; “American men are charming, and they always rise and give their seats to women in the trams, which the men here never think of doing.”
“You need not speak to me so hotly,” said Von Ibn, “I always take a cab.”
The ending of his remark was sufficiently unexpected to cause a short break in the conversation; then Rosina went on:
“I saw a man do a very gallant thing once, he hurried to carry a poor old woman’s big bundle of washing for her because the tram stopped in the wrong place and she would have so far to take it. Wasn’t that royal in him?”
He did not appear impressed.
“Does that man take the broom and sweep a little for the street-cleaner when he meets her?” he asked, after a brief period for reflection.
“We do not have women street-cleaners in America.”
Then he yawned, with no attempt at disguise. She felt piqued at such an open display of ennui, and turned from him to the now brilliant shore past which they were gliding.
After a minute or two he took out his note-book and pencil.
“Deutsches-Filiale, Munich, you said, did you not?”
She nodded.
“Can you write my name?” he asked.
“If strict necessity should drive me to it.”
“Write it here, please.”
He held the book upon the rail and she obeyed the request. Afterwards he held the page to the light until he was apparently thoroughly assured of some doubtful point, and then put it back in his pocket.
“I shall send you a card Poste Restante at Zurich,” he announced, as the lights of Lucerne blazed up close beside them.
“Be sure that you spell my name right.”
“Yes,” he said, taking out his note-book again; “it is like this, n’est ce pas?” and he wrote, and then showed her the result.
“Yes, that’s it,” she assented.
He continued to regard his book with deep attention.
“It exasperates me to have my name spelled wrong,” she went on; “doesn’t it you?”
“Yes,” he said; “it is for that that I look in my book.”
She came close and looked at what she had written, – “Von Ebn.”
“Isn’t that right?” she asked in surprise.
“It is your English E, but not my letter.”
“How do you spell your name?”
“I-b-n.”
“Oh!”
She laughed, and he laughed with her.
“That was very stupid in me,” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” he replied, with one of his rare smiles; “but I would have said nothing, only that at the Poste Restante I shall lose all my letters from you.”
“All! what leads you to suppose that there would ever be any?”
He turned and looked steadily at her, his eyes widely earnest.
“What, not even a post card?”
Rosina forgave the yawn, or perhaps she had forgotten it.
“Do you really want to hear from me again?”
“Yes, really.”
“Shall you remember me after I am gone?”
“Natürlich.”
“For how long?”
At that he shrugged his shoulders. Down below they were making ready for the landing.
“Who can say?” he answered at last.
“At least, monsieur, you are frank.”
“I am always frank.”
“Is that always best?”
“I think so.”
People were beginning to move towards the staircase. Below, the man stood ready to fling the rope.
“Let us go to the other landing and walk back across the stone bridge,” he suggested.
“There is not time; it is quite seven o’clock now.”
“But I shall not again be with you, and there is something that I must say.”
“You must say it here, then.”
The rope was thrown and caught, and every one aboard received