For a few minutes they all seemed to be interested in their own thoughts. Finally a youth in a lavender waistcoat and a gray dinner jacket broke the silence. "Gimme a cigaret, Bob." "Don't you ever _buy_ cigarets, Sticky?" growled the one addressed, reluctantly extending his case. "Sticky" ignored the question. "I wonder if Buzzy's got it into his head to get married," he said reflectively. "She's rich enough," remarked the drawler. "How about De Foe? He's the bell-cow, isn't he?" "She's in love with him, that's all. The name of Van Pycke would get her into the very heart of the Four Hundred. With Buzzy's patronymic and the lamented Jim's millions, she'd be an establishment in herself. And, besides, Buzzy's a chap any woman might be proud of as a husband. He's good-looking, amusing, popular, and--useless. His habits are unnaturally decent. Drinks less than any fellow in the club--except the spooks who don't drink at all. Gambles moderately and--" "Fellows, I believe Buzzy'd make something of himself if he didn't have the family name to carry around," burst out "Sticky." "Lemme take a cigaret, Bob. Yes, sir; he's got it in him. If the old man was off the map, Buzzy'd come to realize that there's something for him to do besides marrying for money. The way it is now, he's just got to marry a lot of dough. It's cut out for him. That's all he's ever been taught,--that's all he grew up for. He's--Sh! Here he is!" A slender young man, immaculately dressed from tip to toe, approached the group. If any feature was out of proportion in this young man's face, it was his nose,--or perhaps it was his mouth. His nose was rather long and fine,--a typically aristocratic Van Pycke nose, but unblooming,--and his mouth was a bit too large for perfect symmetry, you might argue. But the one denoted truly patrician blood; the other signified no small amount of strength as well as the most engaging good nature. That is to say, one could not, by any chance, take him for a snob; the mouth quite offset the nose. Mr. Van Pycke has already said he was twenty-five. He looked what he was set up to be,--a gentleman, bred and born. More than one of his friends noticed the absence of a certain genial smile that usually illumined his face when he joined a party of acquaintances. There was something almost suggestive of gloom in his eyes. The mobile lips were not spread in the gentle smile they knew so well; they were rather studied in their sedateness. His hands were in his pockets (which was most unusual), and--yes, his tie was rather carelessly knotted. "Your father's looking for you, Buzzy," said Sticky. "He is? I thought he was looking for some one when I passed him out there just now. Here, waiter, take the orders." He sat upon the edge of a table and swung one leg aimlessly while the servant took the orders. "I'll take a Bronx," he said, after the others had spoken.