He gave a hand to Long and Miller. "How're you all?" He warmed to their
friendly faces and unfeigned welcome. "My, but it's good to see you!"
There was relief in the fact that Kellogg, after a single glance,
forbore to question his return; he was to be counted upon for tact, was
Kellogg. Now he strangled surprise by turning to the fourth member of
the party.

"Nat," he said, "I want you to meet Mr. Bartlett. Mr. Bartlett, Mr.
Duncan."

A wholesome smile dawned on Duncan's face as he encountered the blank
blue stare of a young man whose very smooth and very bright red face
was admirably set off by semi-evening dress. "Great Scott!" he cried,
warmly pressing the lackadaisical hand that drifted into his. "Willy
Bartlett--after all these years!"

A sudden animation replaced the vacuous stare of the blue eyes.
"Duncan!" he stammered. "I say, this is rippin'!"

"As bad as that?" Duncan essayed an accent almost English and nodded
his appreciation of it: something which Bartlett missed completely.

He was very young--a very great deal younger, Duncan thought, than when
they had been classmates, what time Duncan shared his rooms with
Kellogg: very much younger and suffering exquisitely from
over-sophistication. His drawl barely escaped being inimitable; his air
did not escape it. "Smitten with my old trouble," Duncan appraised him:
"too much money... Heaven knows I hope he never recovers!"

As for Willy, he was momentarily more nearly human than he had seemed