“You could do anything, Jo, if you weren’t so d-damned careful of yourself!” Dear old Nick! Such a good fellow, but aracketty chap! The notorious Treffry! He had never taken any care of himself. So he was dead. Old Jolyon counted his cigarswith a steady hand, and it came into his mind to wonder if perhaps he had been too careful of himself.

He put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, and walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaningon one foot and the other, and helping himself by the bannister. The house was too big. After June was married, if she everdid marry this fellow, as he supposed she would, he would let it and go into rooms. What was the use of keeping half a dozenservants eating their heads off?

The butler came to the ring of his bell — a large man with a beard, a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence.Old Jolyon told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at the Club.

How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the station? Since two? Then let him come round at half-pastsix!

The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of those political institutions of the upper middleclass which have seen better days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of being talked about, it betrayeda disappointing vitality. People had grown tired of saying that the ‘Disunion’ was on its last legs. Old Jolyon would sayit, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to well-constituted Clubmen.

“Why do you keep your name on?” Swithin often asked him with profound vexation. “Why don’t you join the ‘Polyglot’? Youcan’t get a wine like our Heidsieck under twenty shillin’ a bottle anywhere in London;” and, dropping his voice, he added:“There’s only five hundred dozen left. I drink it every night of my life.”