Mr. White, one of the steadiest members, threatened to withdraw his subscription on account of the black-beetles; a Swedish sea-captain smashed nine panes of glass—­just by way of a friendly demonstration, he said—­because the great Upsala journal, the Utan STAFVEL, was missing from its shelf; a muscular Japanese made himself distinctly offensive about the NICHI-NICHI-Shin-bum being out of date, and was going to twist everybody’s head off, if it occurred again; the excellent Vice-President, Mr. Richards, tumbled noisily downstairs, nobody knew how or why—­all on a single afternoon.  The sirocco happened to be particularly trying that day.

On the whole, there was no denying the fact that the Club flourished under the statesman-like autocracy of Mr. Parker.  That was partly because, unlike previous presidents, he was generally on the spot.  Some great man once made a remark about the need of “the Master’s Eye.”  He believed in that remark.  If you run a place, run it yourself.  He was ever-present, absorbing at ogher people’s expense his own poison, to the effects of which he seemed to be immune; and borrowing money, on the sly, from the richer and more forgetful members.  His uproarious joviality, his echoing ha! ha! became a feature of the place; it deceived the simple, and amused the complex.  He was ready to talk about anything with anybody who shoved along; he had a fund of naughty tropical stories for the so-called bawdy section, and could be as sympathetic and pious as you please with a contrite youngster suffering from last night’s debauch.

“A hair of the dog,” he would suggest with a genial wink, pushing the bottle temptingly nearer.

The regulations had also been improved under his auspices.  The entrance fee was imperceptibly raised, while the conditions of entry were relaxed.  It was his lady’s idea originally.  She made it clear that the more numerous the members the greater the quantity of whisky consumed—­the greater, therefore, their profits; quite apart from the possibility of additional subscriptions being paid.  He agreed.  Then, in a sudden glow of commercial enthusiasm, he proceeded to hint that ladies should also be admitted.  Regretfully she put her foot down.  Anywhere else the proposal would have been welcome.  It was out of the question on Nepenthe.

“You’re forgetting that Wilberforce woman,” she said.  “She would have to be carried home every night.  It couldn’t be done, Freddy.  We might as well shut up the shop at once.  People would get talking about the place—­you know how they talk, as it is.”

Miss Wilberforce was a pathetic local figure, a lady by birth, with a ready tongue, wiry limbs, and an insatiable craving for alcohol.  She would unavoidably have damaged the reputation of the place, to say nothing of its furniture.  She had gone from bad to worse lately.

“Perhaps you’re right, Lola.  It isn’t worth while for those few subscriptions.  After all, I’m an Englishman.  But how about all those Russians?” he added.