'There's a little roll. Do you feel it?' Eva demanded.
'Perhaps we'd better split a pint of champagne.'
While he gave the order a short colloquy was taking place at the other table; presently a young man rose and came over to them.
'Isn't this Mr Adrian Smith?'
'Yes.'
'We wondered if we couldn't put you down for the deck-tennis tournament. We're going to have a deck-tennis tournament.'
'Why--' Adrian hesitated.
'My name's Stacomb,' burst out the young man. 'We all know your--your plays or whatever it is, and all that--and we wondered if you wouldn't like to come over to our table.'
Somewhat overwhelmed, Adrian laughed: Mr Stacomb, glib, soft, slouching, waited; evidently under the impression that he had delivered himself of a graceful compliment.
Adrian, understanding that, too, replied: 'Thanks, but perhaps you'd better come over here.'
'We've got a bigger table.'
'But we're older and more--more settled.'
The young man laughed kindly, as if to say, 'That's all right.'
'Put me down,' said Adrian. 'How much do I owe you?'
'One buck. Call me Stac.'
'Why?' asked Adrian, startled.
'It's shorter.'
When he had gone they smiled broadly.
'Heavens,' Eva gasped, 'I believe they are coming over.'