“I don’t get on,” remarked St. George with a dry smile.  He was still standing.  “Why do you ask?” Money rarely troubled St. George; such small sums as he possessed were hived in this same Patapsco Bank, but the cashier had never refused to honor one of his checks as long as he had any money in their vaults, and he didn’t think they would begin now.  “Queer question for you to ask, Harding” (and a trifle underbred, he thought, one’s private affairs not being generally discussed at a club).  “Why does it interest you?”

“Well, you always say you despise money and yet you seem happy and contented, well dressed, well groomed”—­here he wheeled St. George around to look at his back—­“yes, got on one of your London coats—­ Hello, Harry!—­glad to see you,” and he held out his hand to the boy.  “But really, St. George, aren’t you a little worried over the financial outlook?  John Gorsuch says we are going to have trouble, and John knows.”

“No”—­drawled St. George—­“I’m not worried.”

“And you don’t think we’re going to have another smash-up?” puffed Harding.

“No,” said St. George, edging his way toward the steps of the club as he spoke.  He was now entirely through with Harding; his financial forebodings were as distasteful to him as his comments on his clothes and bank account.

“But you’ll have a julep, won’t you?  I’ve just sent John for them.  Don’t go—­sit down.  Here, John, take Mr. Temple’s order for—­”

“No, Harding, thank you.”  The crushed ice in the glass was no cooler nor crisper than St. George’s tone.  “Harry and I have been broiling in the sun all the morning and we are going to go where it is cool.”

“But it’s cool here,” Harding called after him, struggling to his feet in the effort to detain him.  There was really no one in the club he liked better than St. George.

“No—­we’ll try it inside,” and with a courteous wave of his hand and a feeling of relief in his heart, he and Harry kept on their way.

He turned to mount the steps when the sudden pushing back of all the chairs on the sidewalk attracted his attention.  Two ladies were picking their way across the street in the direction of the club.  These, on closer inspection, proved to be Miss Lavinia Clendenning and her niece, Sue Dorsey, who had been descried in the offing a few minutes before by the gallants on the curbstone, and who at first had been supposed to be heading for Mrs. Pancoast’s front steps some distance away, until the pair, turning sharply, had borne down upon the outside chairs with all sails set—­(Miss Clendenning’s skirts were of the widest)—­a shift of canvas which sent every man to his feet with a spring.

Before St. George could reach the group, which he did in advance of Harry, who held back—­both ladies being intimate friends of Kate’s—­old Captain Warfield, the first man to gain his feet—­very round and fat was the captain and very red in the face (1812 Port)—­was saying with his most courteous bow: