"You could do anything, Jo, if you weren't so d-damned careful of
yourself!" Dear old Nick! Such a good fellow, but a racketty chap! The
notorious Treffry! He had never taken any care of himself. So he was
dead. Old Jolyon counted his cigars with a steady hand, and it came into
his mind to wonder if perhaps he had been too careful of himself.
He put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, and
walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaning on one foot and the
other, and helping himself by the bannister. The house was too big.
After June was married, if she ever did marry this fellow, as he
supposed she would, he would let it and go into rooms. What was the use
of keeping half a dozen servants eating their heads off?
The butler came to the ring of his bell--a large man with a beard, a
soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence. Old Jolyon told him to
put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at the Club.
How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the
station? Since two? Then let him come round at half-past six!
The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of
those political institutions of the upper middle class which have seen
better days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of
being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing vitality. People had
grown tired of saying that the 'Disunion' was on its last legs. Old
Jolyon would say it, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly
irritating to well-constituted Clubmen.
"Why do you keep your name on?" Swithin often asked him with profound
vexation. "Why don't you join the 'Polyglot'? You can't get a wine like
our Heidsieck under twenty shillin' a bottle anywhere in London;" and,
dropping his voice, he added: "There's only five hundred dozen left. I
drink it every night of my life."
"I'll think of it," old Jolyon would answer; but when he did think of
it there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance fee, and it
would take him four or five years to get in. He continued to think of
it.
He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the
political doctrines of his Club, had even been known to allude to them
as 'wretched stuff,' and it afforded him pleasure to continue a member
in the teeth of principles so opposed to his own. He had always had
a contempt for the place, having joined it many years ago when they
refused to have him at the 'Hotch Potch' owing to his being 'in trade.'
As if he were not as good as any of them! He naturally despised the
Club that did take him. The members were a poor lot, many of them in the
City--stockbrokers, solicitors, auctioneers--what not! Like most men
of strong character but not too much originality, old Jolyon set small
store by the class to which he belonged. Faithfully he followed their
customs, social and otherwise, and secretly he thought them 'a common
lot.'