“With four fingered William,” Aunt Philomela hastily reminded him.
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
“Polar bear and—such things?” persisted Carl.
“Exactly. Polar bear and such things.”
There was a long pause. Barnes stubbornly refused to expound. Miss Van Patten came to the rescue. She asked Carl about the new song he was composing. That answered through the dessert, but with the cheese and coffee Carl turned once more upon Barnes.
“I suppose you had a rough time of it where you came from. Nothing like this, was it?”
“Where I came from—no.”
“Snow everywhere I suppose. Nothing green?”
“From the house where I lived, you couldn’t see a sprig of green,” Barnes answered truthfully.
“Jove, it must be a desolate country.”