“Here’s old Paul grumbling again!” said Sims of Downing Street.  “After all, this is the best club in London.”

“It certainly is,” said Mr. Prohack, “when it’s closed.  During the past four weeks this club has been the most perfect institution on the face of the earth.”

They all laughed.  And they began recounting to each other the unparalleled miseries and indignities which such of them as had remained in London had had to endure in the clubs that had “extended their hospitality” to members of the closed club.  The catalogue of ills was terrible.  Yes, there was only one club deserving of the name.

“Still,” said Sir Paul.  “They might give us a rest from prunes and rice.”

“This club,” said Mr. Prohack, “like all other clubs, is managed by a committee of Methuselahs who can only digest prunes and rice.”  And after a lot more talk about the idiosyncrasies of clubs he said, with a casual air:  “For myself, I belong to too many clubs.”

Said Hunter, a fellow official of the Treasury: 

“But I thought you only had two clubs, Arthur.”

“Only two.  But it’s one too many.  In fact I’m not sure if it isn’t two too many.”

“Are you getting disgusted with human nature?” Sims suggested.

“No,” said Mr. Prohack.  “I’m getting hard up.  I’ve committed the greatest crime in the world.  I’ve committed poverty.  And I feel guilty.”

And the truth was that he did feel guilty.  He was entirely innocent; he was a victim; he had left undone nothing that he ought to have done; but he felt guilty, thus proving that poverty is indeed seriously a crime and that those who in sardonic jest describe it as a crime are deeper philosophers than they suppose.

“Never say die,” smiled the monocled Mixon, a publisher of scientific works, and began to inveigh against the Government as an ungrateful and unscrupulous employer and exploiter of dutiful men in an inferno of rising prices.  But the rest thought Mixon unhappy in his choice of topic.  Hunter of the Treasury said nothing.  What was there to say that would not tend to destroy the true club atmosphere?  Even the beloved Prohack had perhaps failed somewhat in tact.  They all understood, they all mildly sympathised, but they could do no more—­particularly in a miscellaneous assemblage of eight members.  No, they felt a certain constraint; and in a club constraint should be absolutely unknown.  Some of them glanced uneasily about the crowded, chattering room.

III

It was then, that a remarkable coincidence occurred.

“I saw Bishop at Inverness last week,” said Sir Paul Spinner to Mr. Prohack, apropos of nothing whatever.  “Seems he’s got a big moor this year in Sutherlandshire.  So I suppose he’s recovered from his overdose of shipping shares.”

Bishop (Fred Ferrars) was a financier with a cheerful, negligent attitude towards the insecurities and uncertainties of a speculative existence.  He was also a close friend of Prohack, of Sir Paul, and of several others at the table, and a member of Prohack’s secondary club, though not of his primary club.