monetary saving would be unimportant, but the act would be spectacular.
And Mr. Prohack perfectly comprehended the value of the spectacular in
existence.


II

He sat down to lunch among half a dozen cronies at one of the larger
tables in a window-embrasure of the vaulted coffee-room with its
precious portrait of that historic clubman, Charles James Fox, and he
ordered himself the cheapest meal that the menu could offer, and poured
himself out a glass of water.

"Same old menu!" remarked savagely Mr. Prohack's great crony, Sir Paul
Spinner, the banker, who suffered from carbuncles and who always drove
over from the city in the middle of the day.

"Here's old Paul grumbling again!" said Sims of Downing Street. "After
all, this is the best club in London."

"It certainly is," said Mr. Prohack, "when it's closed. During the past
four weeks this club has been the most perfect institution on the face
of the earth."

They all laughed. And they began recounting to each other the
unparalleled miseries and indignities which such of them as had remained
in London had had to endure in the clubs that had "extended their
hospitality" to members of the closed club. The catalogue of ills was
terrible. Yes, there was only one club deserving of the name.