"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.'




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