"By the way," muttered his father, obstructing the way, as if recalling something he had forgotten to attend to inside the club, "would you mind lending me fifty for a couple of days? I meant to speak to you about it in--" "Will ten do, dad? It's all I have with me, except a tip for the driver. We mustn't forget the driver on a night like this." Bosworth was feeling in his trousers pocket, no sign of resentment in his face. "I dare say I can borrow forty from Stone," said the other, readily. "No," he went on, after he had pocketed the crumpled bank note and was fastening his baby lamb collar close up to his shrivelled throat; "no, we can't forget the driver on a night like this. You really won't mind dropping me up town, will you, Bosworth? I don't mind walking if you'd rather not." "Come along, governor," said the other, pushing through the doors. "Ah, that cold air feels good!" The young man drew in a long, deep breath. "Good? It might feel good to a polar bear, but I don't see how--" "Sh! Be careful, dad! Don't let the driver hear you call me a polar bear. He wouldn't understand, and it might get into the papers--the very thing I'm trying to avoid." Mr. Van Pycke attributed this remarkable utterance to the cup that cheers and befuddles. At best he seldom appreciated or understood Bosworth's wit. The taxicab plowed and sputtered its way through a city block of pelting snow before he gave over trying to analyze this latest example. Then he broke the silence, in the shrill, chattering tones of one who is very cold. "I don't think I told the driver where he could put me down," he said. "Eh?" mumbled Bosworth, coming out of a dream. "Oh, I dare say it won't matter. I'll tell him when he puts me down." "But," expostulated his father, from the recesses of the baby lamb, "you may be going to--to Harlem." He could think of nothing worse. "I've been delayed in keeping my appointment on your account, as it is. It's very annoying, Bosworth, that I should be kept waiting a whole hour there in the club while you puttered your time away at--" "Where _do_ you want to get out, dad?" interrupted the scion of the house of Van Pycke. Mr. Van Pycke had been thinking. He was not sure that he wanted Bosworth to know just where he was going on this momentous night. It occurred to him that the walk of a block would not only throw the young man off the track, but might also serve to soften the heart of the lady for whom he was risking so much in the shape of health by venturing forth afoot in a storm so relentless. Moreover, he could tell her that he had walked all the way up from the club, cabless because even the hardiest of drivers balked at the prospect. A statement like that, attended by a bushel or more of snow in the vestibule where it had been brushed off by the butler, ought to convince the lady in mind that his devotion was thinly divorced from recklessness. So he told Bosworth that he would get out at Mr. Purdwell's house.