"Good Lord, it's a rotten night!" repeated the big man, returning
dismally from a visit to the window. "There's a beastly fog mixed in
with the rain."

"Better blow the fog horn for Henderson," said Ratliff, with a jerk of
his thumb. "He's half seas over already and shipping a lot of water."
Henderson, the convivial member, was on his third siphon.

"I don't care a whoop what McAlpine says," roared an irascible
gentleman on the opposite side of the fireplace; "a man ought to use a
midiron when he gets that kind of a lie. Nobody but an ass would take
a brassie. He's---"

"Just listen to that blethering idiot," said young Rolfe to the lady
beside him. "He ought to be choked."

"I like the way you speak of my husband," she responded gaily.

"Oh, I forgot. He is your husband, isn't he?" Then, after a moment's
easy contemplation of the pretty young woman and a scornful glance at
the golfer: "Lucky, but a very poor watchdog."

"He barks beautifully," resented the young wife, with a loyal grimace.

"That's why you're not afraid of him," he said quickly.

"Don't you think he'd bite?"

"They never do."