"My dear Van Pycke, permit me! Billings is having his coffee with me. It's coming now. I insist on adding the cordial." "Very well, if you insist. Napoleon brandy with a single drop of Curaçao. Mind you,--a single drop, waiter. Ever try that fine old brandy, Knapp?" "I can't afford it," said Knapp, bluntly. "It's the only kind that I can drink," was all that Van Pycke said, lifting his thin eyebrows ever so slightly. "Yes, it's a rotten night," put in Mr. Billings with excellent haste. Knapp's face had gone a trifle red. Down at the other end of the room the "young bucks" were discussing the seared trio under the smileless portrait of a college founder. They spoke in rather subdued tones, with frequent glances toward the door at their left. "Old Van Pycke is the darndest sponge in the club. He never buys a drink, and yet he's always drinking," said one young man. "His nose shows that all right. I hate a pink nose." "You'd think he owned the club, the way he treats it," said another. "Tell me about him," said a new member--from the West. "He's the most elegant, the most fastidious gentleman I've ever seen. An old family?" "Rather! The Van Pyckes are as old as Bowling Green. Some of 'em came over in the Ark--or was it the 'Mayflower'?" "Buzzy came over in the 'Lusitania' last year," ventured one of them. The self-appointed historian, a drawler with ancestors in Trinity churchyard, went on: "Buckets of blue blood in 'em. The old man there is the last of his type. His son, Buzzy,--Bosworth Van Pycke,--he's the chap who gave the much-talked of supper for Carmen the other night--he's really a different sort. Or would be, I should have said, if he had half a chance. Buzzy's a good fellow--a regular--" "You bet he is!" exclaimed two or three approvingly. "The old man's got queer ideas about Buzzy. He insists on his being a regular gentleman." "Nothing queer in that," interrupted the Westerner.