How the devil do you get on without money, Temple ?" He was spread out in his seat, his legs apart, his fat face turned up, his small fox eyes fixed on St.George.
"I don't get on," remarked St.George with a dry smile.

He was still standing.

"Why do you ask ?" Money rarely troubled St.George; such small sums as he possessed were hived in this same Patapsco Bank, but the cashier had never refused to honor one of his checks as long as he had any money in their vaults, and he didn't think they would begin now.
"Queer question for you to ask, Harding" (and a trifle underbred, he thought, one's private affairs not being generally discussed at a club).
"Why does it interest you ?" "Well, you always say you despise money and yet you seem happy and contented, well dressed, well groomed"-- here he wheeled St.
George around to look at his back--"yes, got on one of your London coats--Hello, Harry!--glad to see you," and he held out his hand to the boy.

"But really, St.George, aren't you a little worried over the financial outlook?
John Gorsuch says we are going to have trouble, and John knows." "No"-- drawled St.George--"I'm not worried." "And you don't think we're going to have another smash-up ?" puffed Harding.
"No," said St.George, edging his way toward the steps of the club as he spoke.

He was now entirely through with Harding; his financial forebodings were as distasteful to him as his comments on his clothes and bank account.
"But you'll have a julep, won't you?
I've just sent John for them.