“Perfectly well,” Tavernake answered.

“Now I shall test your memory,” the professor continued, with a knowing smile.  “Can you remember, sir, the brand of champagne which I was then drinking, and which I declared, if you recollect, was the one which best agreed with me, the one brand worth drinking?”

“I am afraid I don’t remember that,” Tavernake confessed.  “Restaurant life is a thing I know so little of, and I have only drunk champagne once or twice in my life.”

“Dear, dear me!” the professor exclaimed.  “You do astonish me, sir.  Well, that brand was Veuve Clicquot, and you may take my word for it, Mr. Tavernake, and you may find this knowledge useful to you when you have made a fortune in America and have become a man of pleasure; there is no wine equal to it.  Veuve Clicquot, sir, if possible of the year 1899, though the year 1900 is quite drinkable.”

“Veuve Clicquot,” Tavernake repeated.  “I’ll remember it for this evening.”

The professor beamed.

“My dear,” he said to Beatrice, “Mr. Tavernake will think that I had a purpose in testing his memory.”

Beatrice smiled.

“And hadn’t you, father?” she asked.

They all laughed together.

“Well, it is pleasant,” the professor admitted, “to have one’s weaknesses ministered to, especially when one is getting on in life,” he added, with a ponderous sigh.  “Never mind, we will think only of pleasant subjects this evening.  It will be quite interesting, Mr. Tavernake, to hear you order the supper.”

“I sha’n’t attempt it,” Tavernake answered.  “I shall pass it on to you.”

“This reminds me,” the professor declared, “of the old days.  I feel sure that this is going to be a thoroughly enjoyable evening.  We shall think of it often, Mr. Tavernake, when you lie sleeping under the stars.  Why, what a wonderful thing these taxicabs are!  You see, we have arrived.”

They secured a small table in a corner at Imano’s, and Tavernake found himself curiously moved as he watched Beatrice take off her worn and much mended gloves and look around uneasily at the other guests.  Her clothes were indeed shabby, and there were hollows now in her cheeks.

Again he felt that pain, a pain for which he could not account.  Suddenly America seemed so far away, the loneliness of the great continent became an actual and appreciable thing.  The professor was very much occupied ordering the supper.  Tavernake leaned across the table.

“Do you remember our first supper here, Beatrice?” he asked.

She nodded, with an attempt at brightness which was a little pitiful.

“Yes,” she replied, “I remember it quite well.  And now, please, Leonard, don’t talk to me again until I have had a glass of wine.  I am tired and worn out, that is all.”

Even Tavernake knew that she was struggling against the tears which already dimmed her eyes.  He filled her glass himself.  The professor set his own down empty with the satisfied smile of a connoisseur.