Shiverton orders a fire in the dog-days, and Swettenham opens the
windows in February. See how Cramley takes the whole breast of the
turkey on his plate, and how many times Jenkins sends away his
beggarly half-pint of sherry! Clubbery is organised egotism. Club
intimacy is carefully and wonderfully removed from friendship. You
meet Smith for twenty years, exchange the day's news with him, laugh
with him over the last joke, grow as well acquainted as two men may
be together--and one day, at the end of the list of members of the
club, you read in a little paragraph by itself, with all the
honours,

MEMBER DECEASED.
Smith, John, Esq.;

or he, on the other hand, has the advantage of reading your own name
selected for a similar typographical distinction. There it is, that
abominable little exclusive list at the end of every
club-catalogue--you can't avoid it. I belong to eight clubs myself,
and know that one year Fitz-Boodle, George Savage, Esq. (unless it
should please fate to remove my brother and his six sons, when of
course it would be Fitz-Boodle, Sir George Savage, Bart.), will
appear in the dismal category. There is that list; down I must go
in it:--the day will come, and I shan't be seen in the bow-window,
someone else will be sitting in the vacant armchair: the rubber
will begin as usual, and yet somehow Fitz will not be there.
"Where's Fitz?" says Trumpington, just arrived from the Rhine.
"Don't you know?" says Punter, turning down his thumb to the carpet.
"You led the club, I think?" says Ruff to his partner (the OTHER
partner!), and the waiter snuffs the candles.