“Your name is Madden, I think,” said I. “My old friend Stennis told me about you when I came.”
“Yes, I am sorry he went; I feel such a Grandfather William, alone among all these lads,” he replied.
“Yes,” said he, “so Madame Siron told me.”
“Dodd, of San Francisco,” I continued. “Late of Pinkerton and Dodd.”
“Montana Block, I think?” said he.
“The same,” said I.
Neither of us looked at each other; but I could see his hand deliberately making bread pills.
“That’s a nice thing of yours,” I pursued, “that panel. The foreground is a little clayey, perhaps, but the lagoon is excellent.”
“You ought to know,” said he.