"Pendergast just passed wearing white spats--A month too late for spats--ought to know better.

Touch the bell, Breen, and say what." Again Jack thanked him, and again Biffton relapsed into silence.

Rather a damper on a man of his calibre, when a fellow wouldn't touch a bell and say what.
Jack having a certain timidity about "butting in"-- outsiders didn't do such things where he came from--settled himself into the depths of the comfortable leather-covered arm-chair and waited for Garry to finish his game.

From where he sat he could not only overlook the small tables holding a choice collection of little tear-bottles, bowls of crushed ice and high-pressure siphons, but his eye also took in the stretch beyond, the club windows commanding the view up and down and quite across the Avenue, as well as the vista to the left.
This outlook was the most valuable asset the Magnolia possessed.

If the parasol was held flat, with its back to the club-house, and no glimpse of the pretty face possible, it was, of course, unquestionable evidence to the member looking over the top of his cocktail that neither the hour or the place was propitious.