shoulder, no hail-fellow greetings, no chance dinner companionship ever
dispelled the awful penumbra of privacy that surrounded even the humblest
member. A man's eating and drinking, his coming or going, his living or
dying, were matters only for club statistics, not for personal inquiry or
notice.

The result of this habitual attitude on the part of the members of the
club and its servants was an atmosphere in which a cataleptic fit would
scarcely warrant unofficial interference; much less would merely mawkish
or absent-minded behavior attract attention. That was the function of
the club--to provide sanctuary for personal whims and idiosyncrasies; of
course, always within the boundaries of the code.

On the evening in question Mr. Van Camp did not actually become silly,
but his manner lacked the poise and seriousness which sophisticated men
are wont to bring to the important event of the day. He was as near
being nervous as a Scotch-American Van Camp could be; and at the same
time he felt an unwonted flow of life and warmth in his cool veins. He
went so far as to make a remark to the waiter which he meant for an
affable joke, and then wanted to kick the fellow for taking it so
solemnly.

"You mind yourself, George, or they'll make you abbot of this monastery
yet!" said Aleck, as George helped him on with his evening coat.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," said George.

He left word at the office that in case any one called he was to be
informed that Mr. Van Camp would return to the club for the night; then,
in his silk hat and generally shining togs, he set forth to make a call.