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--"

"That's just what I say. If one can not be exact, why talk at all?"
Miss Reynier caught it up with high glee. She had a foreign accent, and
an occasional twist of words which proved her to be neither American nor
Englishwoman. "That's my principle," she insisted. "Leave other people
in undisturbed possession of their hobbies, especially in conversation,
and don't say anything if you can't say what you mean. But then, _you_
won't talk about your hobby; and if I have no one to inform me, how can I
be exact? But I'm the meekest person alive; I'm so ready to learn."

Mr. Van Camp surveyed first the bantering, alluring eyes, then turned his
gaze upon the soft luxuries about them.

"Are you ready to turn this bijou dream into a laboratory smelling of
alcohol and fish? Are you ready to spend hours wading in mudbanks after