His library consisted only of some fifty volumes, for he had never felt himself able to purchase books; Mudie, and the shelves of his club, generally supplied him with all he needed.

The club, of course, was an indispensable luxury; it gave him a West-end address, enabled him to have a friend to lunch or dine in decent circumstances without undue expense, and supplied him with very good stationery for his correspondence.
Moreover, it pleasantly enlarged his acquaintance.

At the club he had got to know Lord Dymchurch, a month or two ago, and this connection he did not undervalue.

His fellow members, it is true, were not, for the most part, men of the kind with whom Dyce greatly cared to talk; as yet, they did not seem much impressed with his conversational powers; but Lord Dymchurch promised to be an exception, and of him Dyce had already a very high opinion.
After an hour or so of smoking and musing and mental vacillation, he sat down to write his letter.

"Dear Miss Connie," he began.