Adolph Keller was the man's name. And as June was to learn later, he had never felt more amused in his life. It was really a jest that he should follow a countrified-looking girl into a teashop, get into conversation with her, and then be quietly told that she had a Van Roon to sell. There was something rather pathetic in a girl of her class making such a statement. All she could mean was that somehow she had got hold of a more or less "dud" copy of "Sun and Cloud," that much lithographed work in the National Gallery which in consequence was now familiar to the big public.
"So you've got a Van Roon for sale, have you?" said Adolph Keller, who was hardly able to keep from laughing outright. "Good for you! What's the size of it?"
"Sixteen inches by twelve," said June, with the patness of one who prided herself, and with reason, upon a most excellent memory.
"Without the frame?"
June nodded.
"Yes, that's about the size," said Keller. "It's called 'Sun and Cloud,' I suppose?"
"It's not called anything at present," said June, "as far as I know, although sun and cloud are in it."
"Bound to be—if it's a Van Roon."
