“I beg your pardon if I intrude,” he said in English, “but it has just occurred to me that you might be a member of the National Geographic Society.”
“Please sit down,” Harris said. The gentleman sat down.
“Won’t you have another coffee or a liqueur?”
“Thank you,” said the gentleman.
“Won’t you have a kirsch with me?”
“Perhaps. But you must have it with me.”
“No, I insist.” Harris called the waitress. The old gentleman took out from an inside pocket of his coat a leather pocket-book. He took off a wide rubber band and drew out several papers, selected one, and handed it to Harris.
“That is my certificate of membership,” he said. “Do you know Frederick J. Roussel in America?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I believe he is very prominent.”
“Where does he come from? Do you know what part of the States?”
“From Washington, of course. Isn’t that the headquarters of the Society?”
“I believe it is.”
“You believe it is. Aren’t you sure?”
“I’ve been away a long time,” Harris said.
“You’re not a member, then?”
“No. But my father is. He’s been a member for a great many years.”
“Then he would know Frederick J. Roussel. He is one of the officers of the society. You will observe that it is by Mr. Roussel that I was nominated for membership.”
“I’m awfully glad.”
“I am sorry you are not a member. But you could obtain nomination through your father?”
“I think so,” said Harris. “I must when I go back.”
“I would advise you to,” said the gentleman. “You see the magazine, of course?”
“Absolutely.”
