“It strikes me that you've got a little of it yourself,” observed the young man evenly.
The quill toothpick under the adroit guidance of his tongue traveled from the left- to the right-hand side of the other's mouth.
“It is equally as essential to me,” he said dryly. “You appear to fill the bill; but there is always the possibility of a fly in the ointment; complications—er—unpleasant complications, perhaps, you know, that might have arisen since you left San Francisco, and that might—er—complicate matters.”
The young man relapsed into a recumbent position upon the sand, his hands clasped under his head again, and in his turn appeared to be absorbed in the beauty of the night.
“Moon-madness!” he murmured pityingly.
“A myth!” said the tall man promptly. “Would you mind sketching in roughly the details of your interesting career since you left the haunts of the aristocracy?”
“I don't see any reason why I should.” The young man yawned.
“Do you see any reason why you shouldn't?” inquired the other composedly.
“None,” said the young man, “except that the steamer sails at daybreak, and I should never forgive myself if you were left behind.”
“Nor forgive yourself, perhaps, if you failed to sail on her as a first-class passenger,” said the tall man quietly.