It was getting on for the Stoics’ dinner hour when Gregory found himself in Piccadilly, and, Stoic after Stoic, they were getting out of cabs and passing the club doors.  The poor fellows had been working hard all day on the racecourse, the cricket-ground, at Hurlingham, or in the Park; some had been to the Royal Academy, and on their faces was a pleasant look:  “Ah, God is good—­we can rest at last!” And many of them had had no lunch, hoping to keep their weights down, and many who had lunched had not done themselves as well as might be hoped, and some had done themselves too well; but in all their hearts the trust burned bright that they might do themselves better at dinner, for their God was good, and dwelt between the kitchen and the cellar of the Stoics’ Club.  And all—­for all had poetry in their souls—­looked forward to those hours in paradise when, with cigars between their lips, good wine below, they might dream the daily dream that comes to all true Stoics for about fifteen shillings or even less, all told.

From a little back slum, within two stones’ throw of the god of the Stoics’ Club, there had come out two seamstresses to take the air; one was in consumption, having neglected to earn enough to feed herself properly for some years past, and the other looked as if she would be in consumption shortly, for the same reason.  They stood on the pavement, watching the cabs drive up.  Some of the Stoics saw them and thought:  ‘Poor girls! they look awfully bad.’  Three or four said to themselves:  “It oughtn’t to be allowed.  I mean, it’s so painful to see; and it’s not as if one could do anything.  They’re not beggars, don’t you know, and so what can one do?”

But most of the Stoics did not look at them at all, feeling that their soft hearts could not stand these painful sights, and anxious not to spoil their dinners.  Gregory did not see them either, for it so happened that he was looking at the sky, and just then the two girls crossed the road and were lost among the passers-by, for they were not dogs, who could smell out the kind of man he was.

“Mr. Pendyce is in the club; I will send your name up, sir.”  And rolling a little, as though Gregory’s name were heavy, the porter gave it to the boy, who went away with it.

Gregory stood by the empty hearth and waited, and while he waited, nothing struck him at all, for the Stoics seemed very natural, just mere men like himself, except that their clothes were better, which made him think:  ’I shouldn’t care to belong here and have to dress for dinner every night.’

“Mr. Pendyce is very sorry, sir, but he’s engaged.”

Gregory bit his lip, said “Thank you,” and went away.

‘That’s all Margery wants,’ he thought; ‘the rest is nothing to me,’ and, getting on a bus, he fixed his eyes once more on the sky.

But George was not engaged.  Like a wounded animal taking its hurt for refuge to its lair, he sat in his favourite window overlooking Piccadilly.  He sat there as though youth had left him, unmoving, never lifting his eyes.  In his stubborn mind a wheel seemed turning, grinding out his memories to the last grain.  And Stoics, who could not bear to see a man sit thus throughout that sacred hour, came up from time to time.