“From Maryland?  So am I; I was raised down in Prince George County.  Glad to know you.  Are you any connection of the Breens of Ann Arundle?”

“Yes, sir—­all my people came from Ann Arundle.  My father was Judge Breen,” answered Jack with embarrassment.  He had not yet become accustomed to the novelty of the scene around him.

“Now I know just where you belong.  My father and yours were friends.  I have often heard him speak of Judge Breen.  And did you not meet my daughter at Miss Grayson’s the other day?  She told me she had met a Mr. Breen from our part of the country.”

Jack’s eyes danced.  Was this what Peter had invited him to the club for?  Now it was all clear.  And then again he had not said a word about his being in the Street, or connected with it in any way.  Was there ever such a good Peter?

“Oh, yes, sir!—­and I hope she is very well.”

The engineer said she was extremely well, never better in her life, and that he was delighted to meet a son of his old friend—­ then, turning to the others, immediately forgot Jack’s existence, and for the time being his daughter, in the discussion still going on around him.

The young fellow settled himself in his seat and looked about him —­at the smoke-stained ceiling, the old portraits and quaint fittings and furniture—­more particularly at the men.  He would have liked to talk to Ruth’s father a little longer, but he felt dazed and ill at ease—­out of his element, somehow—­although he remembered the same kind of people at his father’s house, except that they wore different clothes.

But Peter did not leave him long in meditation.  There were other surprises for him upstairs, in the small dining-room opening out of the library, where a long table was spread with eatables and drinkables—­salads, baby sausages, escaloped oysters, devilled crabs and other dishes dear to old and new members.  Here men were met standing in groups, their plates in their hands, or seated at the smaller tables, when a siphon and a beer bottle, or a mug of Bass would be added to their comfort.

It was there the Scribe met him for the second time, my first being the Morris dinner, when he sat within speaking distance.  I had heard of him, of course, as Peter’s new protege—­indeed, the old fellow had talked of nothing else, and so I was glad to renew the acquaintance.  I found him to be like all other young fellows of his class—­I had lived among his people, and knew—­rather shy, with a certain deferential air toward older people—­but with the composure belonging to unconscious youth—­no fidgeting or fussing —­modest, unassertive—­his big brown eyes under their heavy lashes studying everything about him, his face brightening when you addressed him.  I discovered, too, a certain indefinable charm which won me to him at once.  Perhaps it was his youth; perhaps it was a certain honest directness, together with a total lack of all affectation that appealed to me, but certain it is that not many minutes had passed before I saw why Peter liked him, and I saw, too, why he liked Peter.