CHAPTER XXI
IN A BELGIAN GARDEN
That evening I found Williams curled up in his corner at the Café Jaune.
"You are sun-burned," he said, inspecting me.
"A little. I've been in Florida."
"What?"
"With the ghosts of years ago. But it seemed very realistic to me as I sat in the sun and recalled it. Possibly it was even real enough to sun-burn me a little."
He eyed me with considerable chagrin. Perhaps he thought that he had the monopoly of poetic fancies. It was most agreeable to me to touch him up. They're a jealous bunch, those whittlers of fact into fiction.
However, he brightened as he drew a letter from his pocket: