"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."