"Writers," he said at last, "are for ever comparing cities to women. San Francisco is the woman you don't tell the folks at home an awful lot about. Not that she wasn't perfectly proper — I don't mean that — but her stockings were just a little thinner and her laugh a little gayer — people might misunderstand. Besides, the mem- ory is too precious to talk about. Hello."
A tall, lean, handsome Englishman was crossing the grill on his way out. "Cope! Cope, my dear fellow!'* Roger sped after him and dragged him back. "I knew you at once," he was saying, "though it must be more than forty years since I last saw you."
The Britisher dropped into a chair. He smiled a wry smile. "My dear old chap," he said. "Not so literal, if you don't mind."
"Rot!" protested Roger. "What do years matter? This is a young cousin of mine, John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston. Ah — er — just what is your title now?"
'Captain. I'm in the Admiralty." 'Really? Captain Arthur Temple Cope, John Quincy." Roger turned to the Englishman. "You were a midshipman, I believe, when we met in Honolulu. I was talking to Dan about you not a year ago — "
An expression of intense dislike crossed the captain's face. "Ah, yes, Dan. Alive and prospering, I presume?"
"Oh, yes," answered Roger.
"Isn't it damnable," remarked Cope, "how the wicked thrive ?"
An uncomfortable silence fell. John Quincy was fa- miliar with the frankness of Englishmen, but he was none the less annoyed by this open display of hostility toward his prospective host. After all, Dan's last name was Winterslip.
