"You can't see it from the harbor," I contradicted. "You can't see it
from the town. You can't see it from the top of the stairway.
Because--" I paused for the effect. "Because there isn't any temple
there."

"But I saw it with my own eyes!" he cried.

"That was in--?" I queried.

"Seventy-one."

"It was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1887," I explained. "It
was very old."

There was a pause. He was busy reconstructing in his old eyes the
youthful vision of that fair temple by the sea.

"The stairway is still there," I aided him. "You can see it from all
over the harbor. And you remember that little island on the right-hand
side coming into the harbor?" I guess there must have been one there
(I was prepared to shift it over to the left-hand side), for he
nodded. "Gone," I said. "Seven fathoms of water there now."

I had gained a moment for breath. While he pondered on time's changes,
I prepared the finishing touches of my story.

"You remember the custom-house at Bombay?"

He remembered it.