face was a mild joy similar to the joy which he himself experienced in
the reopening of the Club. And he was deliciously aware of the "club
feeling," unlike, and more agreeable than, any other atmosphere of an
organism in the world.

The Club took no time at all to get into its stride after the closure.
It opened its doors and was instantly its full self. For hundreds of
grave men in and near London had risen that very morning from their beds
uplifted by the radiant thought: "To-day I can go to the Club again."
Mr. Prohack had long held that the noblest, the most civilised
achievement of the British character was not the British Empire, nor the
House of Commons, nor the steam-engine, nor aniline dyes, nor the
music-hall, but a good West End club. And somehow at the doors of a good
West End club there was an invisible magic sieve, through which the
human body could pass but through which human worries could not pass.

This morning, however, Mr. Prohack perceived that one worry could pass
through the sieve, namely a worry concerning the Club itself.... Give
up the Club? Was the sacrifice to be consummated? Impossible! Could he
picture himself strolling down St. James's Street without the right to
enter the sacred gates--save as a guest? And supposing he entered as a
guest, could he bear the hall-porter to say to him: "If you'll take a
seat, sir, I'll send and see if Mr. Blank is in the Club. What name,
sir?" Impossible! Yet Milton would be capable of saying just that.
Milton would never pardon a defection.... Well, then, he must give up
the other club. But the other--and smaller--Club had great qualities of
its own. Indeed it was indispensable. And could he permit the day to
dawn on which he would no longer be entitled to refer to "my other
club"? Impossible! Nevertheless he had decided to give up his other
club. He must give it up, if only to keep even with his wife. The