“Remember I punched your head?”

“Rather!” (Somehow I was proud that he had punched my head.)

“No credit to me,” he added magnanimously, “seeing I was years older than you and a foot or so taller.  By the way, Carl, how old did you say you were?”

He regarded me as a sixth-form boy might regard a fourth-form boy.

“I didn’t say I was any age,” I replied.  “But I’m twenty-three.”

“Well, then, you’re quite old enough to have a drink.  Come into the club and partake of a gin-and-angostura, old man.  I’ll clear all this away.”

He pointed to the equipage, the horses, and the groom, and with an apparently magic word whispered into the groom’s ear he did in fact clear them away.  They rattled and jingled off in the direction of Leicester Square, while Sullivan muttered observations on the groom’s driving.

“Don’t imagine I make a practice of tooling tandems down to my club,” said Sullivan.  “I don’t.  I brought the thing along to-day because I’ve sold it complete to Lottie Cass.  You know her, of course?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, anyhow,” he went on after this check, “I’ve sold her the entire bag of tricks.  What do you think I’m going to buy?”

“What?”

“A motor-car, old man!”

In those days the person who bought a motor-car was deemed a fearless adventurer of romantic tendencies.  And Sullivan so deemed himself.  The very word “motor-car” then had a strange and thrilling romantic sound with it.

“The deuce you are!” I exclaimed.

“I am,” said he, happy in having impressed me.  He took my arm as though we had been intimate for a thousand years, and led me fearlessly past the swelling menials within the gate to the club smoking-room, and put me into a grandfather’s chair of pale heliotrope plush in front of an onyx table, and put himself into another grandfather’s chair of heliotrope plush.  And in the cushioned quietude of the smoking-room, where light-shod acolytes served gin-and-angostura as if serving gin-and-angostura had been a religious rite, Sullivan went through an extraordinary process of unchaining himself.  His form seemed to be crossed and re-crossed with chains—­gold chains.  At the end of one gold chain was a gold cigarette-case, from which he produced gold-tipped cigarettes.  At the end of another was a gold matchbox.  At the end of another, which he may or may not have drawn out by mistake, were all sorts of things—­knives, keys, mirrors, and pencils.  A singular ceremony!  But I was now in the world of gold.

And then smoke ascended from the gold-tipped cigarettes as incense from censers, and Sullivan lifted his tinted glass of gin-and-angostura, and I, perceiving that such actions were expected of one in a theatrical club, responsively lifted mine, and the glasses collided, and Sullivan said: 

“Here’s to the end of the great family quarrel.”

“I’m with you,” said I.