many charming friends."

At four o'clock, which is the hour for the entrée of those who escape
from their homes to fling themselves on the sanctuary of the club,
Rankin, the architect, arrived with Stibo, the fashionable painter of
fashionable women, who brought with him the atmosphere of pleasant soap
and an exclusive, smiling languor. A moment later a voice was heard from
the anteroom, saying:

"If any one telephones, I'm not in the club--any one at all. Do you
hear?"

Then Towsey, the decorator, appeared at the letterboxes in spats,
militant checks, high collar and a choker tie, which, yearning toward
his ears, gave him the appearance of one who had floundered up out of
his clothes for the third and last time. He came forward, frowned at the
group, scowled at the negative distractions of the reading-room, and
finally dragged over his chair just as Quinny was saying:

"Queer thing--ever notice it?--two artists sit down together, each
begins talking of what he's doing--to avoid complimenting the other,
naturally. As soon as the third arrives they begin carving up another;
only thing they can agree on, see? Soon as you get four or more of the
species together, conversation always comes around to marriage. Ever
notice that, eh?"

"My dear fellow," said De Gollyer, from the intolerant point of view of
a bachelor, "that is because marriage is your one common affliction.
Artists, musicians, all the lower order of the intellect, marry. They
must. They can't help it. It's the one thing you can't resist. You begin