Porcellis was considerably taller than Huber and very considerably thinner. He was a quiet member of an old Knickerbocker family, who was at home in every sort of society, had gone to law-school as an intellectual diversion and now spent most of his time traveling, always well within his income, through whatever lands chanced to attract his continually changing fancy. "I hope you’ll be comfortable here," he said, when they had been lifted to the fifth floor of the house, which was dry and hot from the steam radiators and smelled as all steam-heated houses smell. The elevator-boy was unlocking the door to Luke’s apartments while Porcellis spoke. He stood aside as the two men entered. "I think I’ll make out very well," said Luke. He handed the boy a tip and dismissed him. "It’s not so big as our rooms in Ware Hall, but then there were two of us there." The quarters were indeed small. The parlor was almost diminutive, and the bedroom, which opened from it, was an alcove; the front window gave upon the busy street, with a bit of Broadway to the right, and the bathroom, in American fashion, was as large as the parlor. "I did the best I could for you," Porcellis explained: he failed to account for his friend’s tone by the fact that Luke was fresh from the spaciousness of a small town. Huber softened. "I didn’t mean to criticise, Jack. I’m sure this will do splendidly. After all, I’m in New York for hard work." "I know you are." Porcellis smiled faintly. "You were never anywhere for anything else. Well, you’ll probably get over that before you’ve quite spoiled yourself for everything. It’s a way New York has." Huber was tolerant. "Is it? You see, I don’t know the town very well." "Who does? However, I’ll show you what I can before I sail—I’m going to Russia next week, you know—and by way of a beginning I’ve brought you a ready-made engagement for to-night. We’ll dine at my club, and see the Follies, and after that—well, I’ve got you a card to Mrs. Ruysdael’s dance." "This doesn’t sound like preparation for work," chuckled Luke; "but, thank you—and who is Mrs. Ruysdael?" "Who is Mrs. Ruysdael?" Porcellis repeated. He was stroking the spot where his blond mustache had been a year ago, but where, because mustaches had since become unfashionable, it no longer grew. "Why, the Mrs. Ruysdael, of course: Mrs. Cornelius Ruysdael." When he heard it in full, Luke remembered the name. Of Mrs. Ruysdael he knew only that she was a woman of fashion; but her husband was everywhere known as the worthy representative of a Dutch New York name long eminent in the country’s history. The family had been rich for several generations, but they had proved themselves surprisingly able to wear the cloak of wealth with dignity. "I remember now," said Luke. "They’re said to be among the heaviest real-estate owners in New York, aren’t they?" Porcellis laughed.