"Allard," he remarked one morning, "you never told me more than just that you were an American. From what state are you?"
They were alone together, two learned and exhausted professors having just taken leave of as trying a listener as could well be conceived. Across the book-strewn table Adrian contemplated the other, meditatively at ease.
"I am a Californian, sire," was the reply.
"Come show me where in this atlas, pour s'amuser. Your California is not small, if I recollect."
Allard came over obediently and found the map, pointing out the city remembered so well and so sadly.
"There, sire, near that little bay. Our place lay beyond the town; we called the house Sun-Kist."
"The house was near the bay?"
"Very near. We used to sail and fish there. Just here lay the yacht club, where Robert kept his motor-boat—" He broke off and turned away more abruptly than strict etiquette allowed.
Adrian deliberately drew his pencil through the name on the map.
"Robert?" he queried.