his fur collar, hating all cold, all coal companies, and all
Kaisers.

In the Racquet Club he found many friends similarly
self-dispossessed, similarly obsessed by discomfort and hatred. But
there seemed to be some steam heat there, and several open fires;
and when the wheatless, meatless meal was ended and the usual
coteries drifted to their usual corners, Mr. Vaux found himself
seated at a table with a glass of something or other at his elbow,
which steamed slightly and had a long spoon in it; and he presently
heard himself saying to three other gentlemen: "Four hearts."

His voice sounded agreeably in his own ears; the gentle glow of a
lignum-vitae wood fire smote his attenuated shins; he balanced his
cards in one hand, a long cigar in the other, exhaled a satisfactory
whiff of aromatic smoke, and smiled comfortably upon the table.

"Four hearts," he repeated affably. "Does anybody--"

The voice of Doom interrupted him:

"Mr. Vaux, sir--"

The young man turned in his easy-chair and beheld behind him a club
servant, all over silver buttons.

"The telephone, Mr. Vaux," continued that sepulchral voice.

"All right," said the young man. "Bill, will you take my cards?"--he
laid his hand, face down, rose and left the pleasant warmth of the