“Here, I say,” said De Gollyer laughing, “look out, those are cigars!”

“No, they’re not,” said Lightbody, pausing for a moment.  Then, seizing two boxes, he whirled about the room holding them at arms’ length, scattering them like the sparks of a pin-wheel, until with a final motion he flung the emptied boxes against the ceiling, and, coming to an abrupt stop, shot out a mandatory forefinger, and cried: 

“Jim, you dine with me!”

“The fact is—­”

“No buts, no excuses!  Break all engagements!  To-night we celebrate!”

“Immense!”

“Round up the boys—­all the boys—­the old crowd.  I’m middle-aged, am I?”

“By George,” said De Gollyer, in free admiration, “you’re getting into form, my boy, excellent form.  Fine, fine, very fine!”

“In half an hour at the Club.”

“Done.”

“Jim?”

“Jack!”

They precipitated themselves into each other’s arms.  Lightbody, as delirious as a young girl at the thought of her first ball, cried: 

“Paris, Vienna, Morocco—­two years around the world!”

“On my honor!”

Rapidly Lightbody, impatient for the celebration, put De Gollyer into his coat and armed him with his cane.

“In half an hour, Jim.  Get Budd, get Reggie Longworth, and, I say, get that little reprobate of a Smithy, will you?”

“Yes, by George.”

At the door, De Gollyer, who, when he couldn’t leave on an epigram, liked to recall the best thing he had said, turned: 

“Never again, eh, old boy?”

“Never,” cried Lightbody, with the voice of a cannon.

“No social sounding-board for us, eh?”

“Never again!”

“You do like that, don’t you?  I say a good thing now and then, don’t I?”

Lightbody, all eagerness, drove him down the hall, crying: 

“Round ’em up—­round them all up!  I’ll show them if I’ve come back!”

When he had returned, waltzing on his toes to the middle of the room, he stopped and flung out his arms in a free gesture, inhaling a delicious breath.  Then, whistling busily, he went to a drawer in the book-shelves and came lightly back, his arms crowded with time-tables, schedules of steamers, maps of various countries.  All at once, remembering, he seized the telephone and, receiving no response, rang impatiently.

“Central—­hello—­hello!  Central, why don’t you answer?  Central, give me—­give me—­hold up, wait a second!” He had forgotten the number of his own club.  In communication at last, he heard the well-modulated accents of Rudolph—­Rudolph who recognized his voice after six years.  It gave him a little thrill, this reminder of the life he was entering once more.  He ordered one of the dinners he used to order, and hung up the receiver, with a smile and a little tightening about his heart at the entry he, the prodigal, would make that night at the Club.