It was a question of taxes which made the first rift between the cousins, a question with which the young Emperor had nothing to do. The tax had been imposed during the period of readjustment; now, owing to the Regent's skilled government, it was no longer necessary and he proposed to remove it. To the amazement of all concerned, Adrian chose to object. Plainly enough Stanief saw Dalmorov's influence behind the opposition, and saw himself bound to persistence both by policy and an implied promise to the people. Not as yet had the tax been removed, but he most courteously had reminded Adrian that no one possessed the power of interference with the measure. The result had been inevitable; Adrian sulked and the Regent's enemies furtively rejoiced. So opened the last year of the regency. If on the first night of the first year Stanief had claimed check of his opponent, now, gazing across the half-cleared board, Dalmorov could return the cry. Meanwhile the suite of the sullen young sovereign suffered much from his caprices; until finally Iría and Allard were the only two his caustic tongue spared and his ill humor passed by. They alone did not dread the honor of attending him. And at last he even contrived to give Allard the sting of many rewakened memories. "Allard," he remarked one morning, "you never told me more than just that you were an American. From what state are you?" They were alone together, two learned and exhausted professors having just taken leave of as trying a listener as could well be conceived. Across the book-strewn table Adrian contemplated the other, meditatively at ease. "I am a Californian, sire," was the reply. "Come show me where in this atlas, _pour s'amuser_. Your California is not small, if I recollect." Allard came over obediently and found the map, pointing out the city remembered so well and so sadly. "There, sire, near that little bay. Our place lay beyond the town; we called the house Sun-Kist." "The house was near the bay?" "Very near. We used to sail and fish there. Just here lay the yacht club, where Robert kept his motor-boat--" He broke off and turned away more abruptly than strict etiquette allowed. Adrian deliberately drew his pencil through the name on the map. "Robert?" he queried. "Robert Allard, sire, my younger brother. He died two years ago." "Soon after you came here, then?" "While I was on the _Nadeja_, sire, making the voyage." "Have you no other relatives there?" "Yes; my aunt, Mrs. Leslie, and my cousin, her daughter." Adrian studied his companion's pallor with a certain scientific interest, idly scribbling on the margin of the atlas without regarding what he wrote. "You regret your home?" he inquired. Allard bit his lip to steady its quiver, fiercely unwilling to bare his old pain for the diversion of this coldly ennuied inquisitor.