"I beg pardon? Oh, yes, I see. Not at all, my dear Billings. De Foe is—er—you might say, a part of her past. He's out of it, quite. I don't mind telling you, he's a—ahem! a damned nuisance, though." This time he looked at his watch with considerable asperity. "Half-past eight! Where the devil is Bos—I say, Knapp, can you see the length of the room? Is he in that crowd over there?"
"No, he isn't," said Knapp, shortly.
"I shall have to telephone up to Palmer's room. I must see him before leaving the club. Beastly night, isn't it?"
"Beastly," remarked the two old gentlemen, unconsciously heaving sighs of relief as Mr. Van Pycke arose and adjusted his immaculate waistcoat. Then he moved away, trimly.
A particularly vicious gust of wind swept up to the windows; the fusillade of gritty snowflakes caused the two old men to lift their gaze to the panes. Billings arose and peered into the swirling, seething street. A phantom-like hansom was passing, a vague, top-heavy thing in shifting whites. Two taxicabs crawled humbly up to the club entrance, and away again, ghostly in their surrender to the noise of the wind.
Mr. Billings shuddered as he resumed his seat.
"I wonder if Van Pycke imagines that she could even think of marrying him! Sixty-three, if he's a day!" Mr. Billings had not been thinking of the storm while he stood in the window.
"Fine old New York name, Billings," mused Knapp. "You can't tell what these women will do to get a name that means something."
Mr. Billings was silent for a long time. Suddenly he stirred himself, relighted his cigar, and remarked: "By Jove, hear that wind howling, will you! It's really worse than the blizzard of '93." "Billings" was not yet a fine old New York name.
The crowd of young fellows at the other end watched Mr. Van Pycke vanish through the door. He was peering into his nose-glasses in such a lofty manner that one might have believed that he scented something disagreeable in every one who passed. As a matter of fact, his sole object was to discover his son if possible. For a long time he had nourished the conviction that his son would not take the trouble to discover him, if he could help it, no matter how close the propinquity. Mr. Van Pycke attributed this phase of filial indifference to the sublimity of caste. After all, wasn't Bosworth the son of his father, and wasn't it quite natural that he should be an improvement on all the Van Pyckes who had gone before? What was the sense in having a son if it were not to better the breed?