The butler came to the ring of his bell—­a large man with a beard, a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence.  Old Jolyon told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at the Club.

How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the station?  Since two?  Then let him come round at half-past six!

The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of those political institutions of the upper middle class which have seen better days.  In spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing vitality.  People had grown tired of saying that the ‘Disunion’ was on its last legs.  Old Jolyon would say it, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to well-constituted Clubmen.

“Why do you keep your name on?” Swithin often asked him with profound vexation.  “Why don’t you join the ‘Polyglot’?  You can’t get a wine like our Heidsieck under twenty shillin’ a bottle anywhere in London;” and, dropping his voice, he added:  “There’s only five hundred dozen left.  I drink it every night of my life.”

“I’ll think of it,” old Jolyon would answer; but when he did think of it there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance fee, and it would take him four or five years to get in.  He continued to think of it.

He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the political doctrines of his Club, had even been known to allude to them as ‘wretched stuff,’ and it afforded him pleasure to continue a member in the teeth of principles so opposed to his own.  He had always had a contempt for the place, having joined it many years ago when they refused to have him at the ‘Hotch Potch’ owing to his being ‘in trade.’  As if he were not as good as any of them!  He naturally despised the Club that did take him.  The members were a poor lot, many of them in the City —­stockbrokers, solicitors, auctioneers—­what not!  Like most men of strong character but not too much originality, old Jolyon set small store by the class to which he belonged.  Faithfully he followed their customs, social and otherwise, and secretly he thought them ‘a common lot.’

Years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the recollection of his defeat at the ‘Hotch Potch’; and now in his thoughts it was enshrined as the Queen of Clubs.  He would have been a member all these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod way his proposer, Jack Herring, had gone to work, they had not known what they were doing in keeping him out.  Why! they had taken his son Jo at once, and he believed the boy was still a member; he had received a letter dated from there eight years ago.

He had not been near the ‘Disunion’ for months, and the house had undergone the piebald decoration which people bestow on old houses and old ships when anxious to sell them.

‘Beastly colour, the smoking-room!’ he thought.  ’The dining-room is good!’