He left word at the office that in case any one called he was to be informed that Mr. Van Camp would return to the club for the night; then, in his silk hat and generally shining togs, he set forth to make a call.  He was no stranger to New York, and usually he took his cities as they came, with a matter-of-fact nonchalance.  He would be as much at home on his second day in London as he had ever been in Lynn; or he would go from a friend’s week-end house-party, where the habits of a Sybarite were forced on him, to a camp in the woods and pilot-bread fare, with an equal smoothness of temper and enjoyment.  Since luxury made no impression on him, and hardship never blunted his own ideals of politeness or pleasure, no one ever knew which life he preferred.

Choosing to walk the fifteen or twenty squares to the Archangel apartment house, his destination, Van Camp looked about him, on this night of his arrival, with slightly quickened perceptions.  He cast a mildly appreciative eye toward the picture disclosed here and there by the glancing lights, the chiaroscuro of the intersecting streets, the constantly changing vistas.  For an unimpressionable man, he was rather wrought upon.  Nevertheless, he entered the charming apartment whither he was bound with the detached and composed manner which society regards as becoming.  A maid with a foreign accent greeted him.  Yes, Mademoiselle Reynier was at home; Mr. Van Camp would find her in the drawing-room.

The stiff and unrelaxed manner with which Mr. Van Camp bowed to Miss Reynier a moment later was not at all indicative of the fairly respectable fever within his Scotch breast.  Miss Reynier herself was pretty enough to cause quickened pulses.  She was of noble height, evidently a woman of the world.  She gave Mr. Van Camp her hand in a greeting mingled of European daintiness and American frankness.  Her vitality and abounding interest in life were manifest.

“Ah, but you are very late.  This is how you become smart all at once in your New York atmosphere!  But pray be seated; and here are cigarettes, if you will.  No?  Very well; but tell me; has that amorphous gill-slit—­oh, no, the branchial lamella—­has it behaved itself and proved to be the avenue which shall lead you to fame?”

Mr. Van Camp stood silent through this flippant badinage, and calmly waited until Miss Reynier had settled herself.  Then he thoughtfully turned the chair offered him so as to command a slightly better view of the corner where she sat, leaning against the old-rose cushions.  Finally, taking his own time, he touched off her greeting with his precise drawl.

“I’m not smart, as you call it, even in New York, though I try to be.”  His eyes twinkled and his teeth gleamed in his wide smile.  “If I were smart, I’d pass by your error in scientific nomenclature, but really I ought not to do it.  If one can not be exact—­”