At one of the windows, overlooking a broad street, stood two elderly gentlemen, conversing in no mild tones about the blizzard. Straight-backed, dignified gentlemen, they. They kept their hands clasped behind their backs, smoked very good cigars instead of cigarets, and spoke not of the chorus that gamboled just around a certain corner, but of the blizzard that did the same thing--in a less exalted manner--around _all_ corners. A thin, arrogant figure crossed from the hallway doors, his watery green eyes sweeping the group of young men at the lower end of the room. Evidently the person for whom he was looking was not among them. As he was turning toward the two elderly gentlemen in the window, one of the joyous spirits of 1908 saw him, and called out: "Hello, Mr. Van Pycke! Lookin' for Buzzy?" The thin old gentleman paused. He lifted his nose-glasses and deliberately set them upon the bridge of his long, aristocratic,--and we must say it,--somewhat rose-tinted nose. Then his slim fingers dropped to the end of his neat gray mustache. A coolly impersonal stare sought out the speaker. "Good evening," he said, in the most suave manner possible. No one would have suspected that he was unable to recall the name of the youth who put the question. "Yes, I rather expected to find Bosworth here. He said something about dining here." "He's upstairs in Peter Palmer's room." "Thank you. I sha'n't disturb him. Disagreeable night, gentlemen." The back of his spike-tailed coat confronted the group an instant later; he was crossing the room, headed for the gray-heads in the window. "Good evening, Billings. How are you, Knapp? A beastly night." The three did not shake hands. They had passed that stage long ago. They did nothing that they didn't have to do. "I was just telling Knapp that it reminds me of the blizzard in--" "Stop right there, Billings," interrupted Mr. Van Pycke. "It reminds me of every blizzard that has happened within my recollection. They're all alike--theoretically. A lot of wind, snow, and talk about the poor. Sit down here and have your liqueurs with me." "I'm glad I don't have to go in all this to-night," said little Mr. Billings, '59, unconsciously pressing his knees together as he sat down at the small table. "You're getting old, Billings." "So are you, Van Pycke. Demmit, I'm not more than two years older than you. What's more, you have a grown son." "My dear fellow, Bosworth is only twenty-five. A man doesn't have to be a Methuselah to have a grown son. They grow up like weeds. And some of them amount to about as much as--ahem! Ahem! Please press that button for me, will you, Knapp? I don't see why the devil they always have the button on the other side of the table. No, no! I'll sign for them, old chap. Don't think of it! Here, boy, let me have the ticket. Mr. Knapp rang, but he did it to oblige me. Now, see here, Knapp, I don't like that sort of--"