“The club!  No, not by a damned sight!” exclaimed the head of the house of Breen.  As this latter observation was addressed to the circumambient air, and not immediately to Jack, it elicited no response.  Although slightly profane, Jack was clever enough to read in its tones not only ample apology for previous criticisms but a sort of prospective reparation, whereupon our generous young gentleman forgave his uncle at once, and thought that from this on he might like him the better.

Even Parkins came in for a share of Jack’s most gracious intentions, and though he was as silent as an automaton playing a game of chess, a slight crack was visible in the veneer of his face when Jack thanked him for having brought Mr. Grayson—­same reverential pronunciation—­upstairs himself instead of allowing Frederick or one of the maid-servants to perform that service.

As for his apologies to Corinne and his aunt for having remained in his room after Mr. Grayson’s departure, instead of taking part in the last hours of the dance—­one o’clock was the exact hour—­ these were reserved until those ladies should appear at dinner, when they were made with so penitential a ring in his voice that his aunt at once jumped to the conclusion that he must have been bored to death by the old fellow, while Corinne hugged herself in the belief that perhaps after all Jack was renewing his interest in her; a delusion which took such possession of her small head that she finally determined to send Garry a note begging him to come to her at once, on business of the utmost importance; two strings being better than one, especially when they were to be played each against the other.

As to the uplifting of the house of Breen & Co., and the possibility of so small a tail as himself being able to wag so large a dog as his uncle and his partners, that seemed now to be so chimerical an undertaking that he laughed when he thought of it.

This urbanity of mood was still with him when some days later he dropped into the Magnolia Club on his way home, his purpose being to find Garry and to hear about the supper which his club friends had given him to celebrate his winning of the Morris ring.

Little Biffton was keeping watch when Jack swung in with that free stride of his that showed more than anything else his muscular body and the way he had taken care of and improved it.  No dumb-bells or clubs for fifteen minutes in the morning—­but astride a horse, his thighs gripping a bare-back, roaming the hills day after day—­the kind of outdoor experience that hardens a man all over without specializing his biceps or his running gear.  Little Biff never had any swing to his gait—­none that his fellows ever noticed.  Biff went in for repose—­sometimes hours at a time.  Given a club chair, a package of cigarettes and some one to talk to him and Biff could be happy a whole afternoon.

“Ah, Breen, old man!  Come to anchor.”  Here he moved back a chair an inch or two with his foot, and pushed his silver cigarette-case toward the newcomer.