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,