“But I shouldn’t think you two would be friends in such circumstances.”

“That’s the beauty of it, ma’am; we’re bosom friends, as you know; and yet, we’re fighting for that presidency like two cats of Kilkenny.”

“The New York Athletic Club, is it?”

“Oh, no, ma’am!  Not so, but far otherwise.  The Metropolitan Athletic Club if you please.”

“Yes, I know—­I’d forgotten the name.”

“Don’t mix up the two—­they’re deadly rivals.”

“Why do you want to be president, Sanford?”

“That’s a long tale, but in a nutshell, purely and solely for the good of the club.”

“And that’s the truth,” declared Eunice.  “Sanford is getting himself disliked in some quarters, influential ones, too, and he’s making life-long enemies—­not Alvord, but others—­and it is all because he has the real interests of the club at heart.  Al Hendricks is running it into—­into a mud-puddle!  Isn’t he, San?”

“Well, yes, though I shouldn’t have thought of using that word.  But, he is bringing its gray hairs in sorrow to the grave—­or will, if he remains in office, instead of turning it over to a well-balanced man of good judgment and unerring taste—­say, like one Sanford Embury.”

“You certainly are not afflicted with false pride, Sanford,” and Aunt Abby bit into her crisp toast with a decided snap.

“Why, thank you,” and Embury smiled as he purposely misinterpreted her words.  “I quite agree, Aunt, that my pride is by no means false.  It is a just and righteous pride in my own merits, both natural and acquired.”

He winked at Eunice across the table, and she smiled back appreciatively.  Aunt Abby gave him what was meant to be a scathing glance, but which turned to a nod of admiration.

“That’s so, Sanford,” she admitted.  “Al Hendricks is a nice man, but he falls down on some things.  Hasn’t he been a good president?”

“Until lately, Aunt Abby.  Now, he’s all mixed up with a crowd of intractables—­sporty chaps, who want a lot of innovations that the more conservative element won’t stand for.”

“Why, they want prize-fights and a movie theatre-right in the club!” informed Eunice.  “And it means too much expense, besides being a horrid, low-down—­”

“There, there, Tiger,” and Sanford shook his head at her.  “Let us say those things are unpalatable to a lot of us old fogies—­”

“Stop!  I won’t have you call yourself old—­or fogyish, either!  You’re the farthest possible removed from that!  Why, you’re no older than Al Hendricks.”

“You were all children together,” said Aunt Abby, as if imparting a bit of new information; “you three, and Mason Elliott.  Why, when you were ten or eleven, Eunice, those three boys were eternally camping out in the front yard, waiting for you to get your hair curled and go out to play.  And later, they all hung around to take you to parties, and then, later still —­not so much later, either—­they all wanted to marry you.”