Neither on that day nor on the day following was Muriel alone with von Klausen. Indeed, she was not alone with him again until they touched, at ten o'clock of a bright morning, at Plymouth, where the grateful green and yellow hills rose from the blue water, and the town nestled in a long white belt behind a chain of grim, grey men-of-war. The tender had stood by, and, now that some of the high stacks of mail-bags, which had been filling the stern decks since dawn, were transferred, an endless procession of slouching porters out of uniform carried, one brick to each man for each trip, large bricks of silver down the gangways and deposited them in piles of five, well forward on the tender. Jim had gone to the writing-room to scribble a note that might catch a fast boat from England to his agent at the mine, and Muriel was left beside the rail to talk with the Austrian. "It has been a delightful voyage, has it not?" he asked, in that precise English to which she had now grown accustomed. "I dare say," answered Muriel. "I don't know. You forget that I have had no others with which to compare it." "But you have not been bored?" "No." "It has surely been pleasant, for I have by it had the opportunity to meet you and your brave husband." "My husband, I know, would say as much of it because he has met you." The Austrian bowed. "Nor have I failed," he said, "to tell him how much the entire company aboard seem to admire his charming wife." Muriel was resting her elbows on the rail; her glance was fixed upon the distant town. "He told me," she responded, "that you thought my eyes about the second best within your experience. I hope your experience has been wide." Von Klausen flushed. "My experience," he said, gravely, "has, I regret to tell you, been that of most young men." "Oh!" said Muriel. Her tone showed dislike of all that this implied, but she recalled that Jim had had no such experiences as those to which von Klausen plainly referred, and she suddenly felt, somehow, that this difference between the men did not altogether advance Stainton. "Nevertheless, dear lady," the Austrian was going on, "the eyes that I thought as beautiful as yours--I did not say more beautiful--were eyes that have long since been shut." Muriel was now more piqued than before. Had the man been comparing her to a dead fiancee to whom he, living, remained faithful? "Were they Austrian eyes?" she asked, her own eyes full of obtrusive indifference. "No; they were Italian. Had you come to Europe three years ago, you would have seen them when you went to the Louvre. They were the eyes that have been given to the Mona Lisa." Muriel and he were standing apart from the crowd of passengers that watched the unloading of the silver. The girl turned to her companion. Her glance was interested enough now, and she saw at once that his was serious.