He was at his own small table in the front room overlooking the street when he spoke—­his by right of long use, as it was also of Morris, MacFarlane, Wright, old Partridge the painter, and Knight the sculptor.  For years this group of Centurions, after circling the rooms on meeting nights, criticising the pictures and helping themselves to the punch, had dropped into these same seats by the side of Peter.

And these were not the only chairs tacitly recognized as carrying special privileges by reason of long usage.  Over in the corner between the two rooms could be found Bayard Taylor’s chair—­his for years, from which he dispensed wisdom, adventure and raillery to a listening coterie—­King, MacDonough and Collins among them, while near the stairs, his great shaggy head glistening in the overhead light, Parke Godwin held court, with Sterling, Martin and Porter, to say nothing of still older habitues who in the years of their membership were as much a part of the fittings of the club as the smoke-begrimed portraits which lined its walls.

On this Saturday night he had stepped into the clubhouse with more than his usual briskness.  Sweeping a comprehensive glance around as he entered, as if looking for some one in the hall, he slipped off his overcoat and hat and handed both to the negro servant in charge of the cloak-room.

“George.”

“Yes, Mr. Grayson.”

“If anybody inquires for me you will find me either on this floor or in the library above.  Don’t forget, and don’t make any mistake.

“No, suh—­ain’t goin’ to be no mistake.”

This done, the old gentleman moved to the mirror, and gave a sidelong glance at his perfectly appointed person—­he had been dining at the Portmans’, had left the table early, and was in full evening dress.

The inspection proved that the points of his collar wanted straightening the thousandth part of an inch, and that his sparse gray locks needed combing a wee bit further toward his cheek bones.  These, with a certain rebellious fold in his necktie, having been brought into place, the guardian of the Exeter entered the crowded room, picked a magazine from the shelves and dropped into his accustomed seat.

Holker Morris and Lagarge now strolled in and drawing up to a small table adjoining Peter’s touched a tiny bell.  This answered, and the order given, the two renewed a conversation which had evidently been begun outside, and which was of so absorbing a character that for a moment Peter’s face, half hidden by his book, was unnoticed.

“Oh!—­that’s you, Methusaleh, is it!” cried Morris at last.  “Move over—­have something?”

Peter looked up smiling:  “Not now, Holker.  I will later.”

Morris kept on talking.  Lagarge, his companion—­a thin, cadaverous-looking man with a big head and the general air of having been carved out of an old root—­a great expert in ceramics—­listening intently, bobbing his head in toy-mandarin fashion whenever one of Holker’s iconoelasms cleared the air.