“Thanks,” said Mr. Prohack.  “If he does, I shall be either in the coffee-room or upstairs.”

Mr. Prohack walked into the majestic interior of the Club, which had been closed, rather later than usual, for its annual cleaning.  He savoured anew and more sharply the beauty and stateliness of its architecture, the elaboration of its conveniences, the severe splendour of its luxury.  And he saw familiar and congenial faces, and on every face was a mild joy similar to the joy which he himself experienced in the reopening of the Club.  And he was deliciously aware of the “club feeling,” unlike, and more agreeable than, any other atmosphere of an organism in the world.

The Club took no time at all to get into its stride after the closure.  It opened its doors and was instantly its full self.  For hundreds of grave men in and near London had risen that very morning from their beds uplifted by the radiant thought:  “To-day I can go to the Club again.”  Mr. Prohack had long held that the noblest, the most civilised achievement of the British character was not the British Empire, nor the House of Commons, nor the steam-engine, nor aniline dyes, nor the music-hall, but a good West End club.  And somehow at the doors of a good West End club there was an invisible magic sieve, through which the human body could pass but through which human worries could not pass.

This morning, however, Mr. Prohack perceived that one worry could pass through the sieve, namely a worry concerning the Club itself....  Give up the Club?  Was the sacrifice to be consummated?  Impossible!  Could he picture himself strolling down St. James’s Street without the right to enter the sacred gates—­save as a guest?  And supposing he entered as a guest, could he bear the hall-porter to say to him:  “If you’ll take a seat, sir, I’ll send and see if Mr. Blank is in the Club.  What name, sir?” Impossible!  Yet Milton would be capable of saying just that.  Milton would never pardon a defection....  Well, then, he must give up the other club.  But the other—­and smaller—­Club had great qualities of its own.  Indeed it was indispensable.  And could he permit the day to dawn on which he would no longer be entitled to refer to “my other club”?  Impossible!  Nevertheless he had decided to give up his other club.  He must give it up, if only to keep even with his wife.  The monetary saving would be unimportant, but the act would be spectacular.  And Mr. Prohack perfectly comprehended the value of the spectacular in existence.

II

He sat down to lunch among half a dozen cronies at one of the larger tables in a window-embrasure of the vaulted coffee-room with its precious portrait of that historic clubman, Charles James Fox, and he ordered himself the cheapest meal that the menu could offer, and poured himself out a glass of water.

“Same old menu!” remarked savagely Mr. Prohack’s great crony, Sir Paul Spinner, the banker, who suffered from carbuncles and who always drove over from the city in the middle of the day.