This done, and the note with the number and street of Jack’s uncle’s house spread out before him, Peter squared his elbows, took a sheet of paper from a drawer, covered it with half a dozen lines beginning “My dear Breen—­” enclosed it in an envelope and addressed it to “Mr. John Breen, care of Arthur Breen, Esq.,” etc.  This complete, he affixed the stamp in the upper left-hand corner, and with the letter fast in his hand disappeared in his bedroom, from which he emerged ten minutes later in full walking costume, even to his buckskin gloves and shiny high hat, not to mention a brand-new silk scarf held in place by his diamond tear-drop, the two in high relief above the lapels of his tightly buttoned surtout.

“No, Mrs. McGuffey,” he said with a cheery smile as he passed out of the door (she had caught sight of the letter and had stretched out her hand)—­“No—­I am going for a walk, and I’ll mail it myself.”

CHAPTER XII

Whatever the function—­whether it was a cosey dinner for the congenial few, a crowded reception for the uncongenial many, or a coming-out party for some one of the eager-expectant buds just bursting into bloom—­most of whom he had known from babyhood—­ Peter was always ready with his “Of course I’ll come—­” or “Nothing would delight me more—­” or the formal “Mr. Grayson accepts with great pleasure,” etc., unless the event should fall upon a Saturday night; then there was certain to be a prompt refusal.

Even Miss Felicia recognized this unbreakable engagement and made her plans accordingly.  So did good Mrs. McGuffey, who selected this night for her own social outings; and so did most of his intimate friends who were familiar with his habits.

On any other night you might, or you might not, find Peter at home, dependent upon his various engagements, but if you really wanted to get hold of his hand, or his ear, or the whole or any other part of his delightful body, and if by any mischance you happened to select a Saturday night for your purpose, you must search for him at the Century.  To spend this one evening at his favorite club had been his custom for years—­ever since he had been elected to full membership—­a date so far back in the dim past that the oldest habitue had to search the records to make sure of the year, and this custom he still regularly kept up.

That the quaint old club-house was but a stone’s throw from his own quarters in Fifteenth Street made no difference; he would willingly have tramped to Murray Hill and beyond—­even as far as the big reservoir, had the younger and more progressive element among the members picked the institution up bodily and moved it that far—­as later on they did.

Not that he favored any such innovation:  “Move up-town!  Why, my dear sir!” he protested, when the subject was first mentioned, “is there nothing in the polish of these old tables and chairs, rubbed bright by the elbows of countless good fellows, that appeals to you?  Do you think any modern varnish can replace it?  Here I have sat for thirty years or more, and—­please God!—­here I want to continue to sit.”