He had forgotten a shower of black-balls (attributable to the conjurations of old Ate) on a certain past day.

Without word of refusal, Victor entered a wine-merchant's office, where he was unknown, and stating his wish for bitters and dry sherry, presently received the glass, drank, nodded to the administering clerk, named the person whom he had obliged and refreshed, and passed out, remarking to Fenellan: 'Colney on Clubs! he's right; they're the mediaeval in modern times, our Baron's castles, minus the Baron; dead against public life and social duties.

Business excuses my City Clubs; but I shall take my name off my Club up West.' 'More like monasteries, with a Committee for Abbot, and Whist for the services,' Fenellan said.

'Or tabernacles for the Chosen, and Grangousier playing Divinity behind the veil.

Well, they're social.' 'Sectionally social, means anything but social, my friend.