"Our way?" asked Whyland, still smiling.

"The Readjusted Tax," pronounced Abner, with a gesture toward two or
three of his supporters at his elbow.

"Ah, yes," said Whyland quickly, recognising the faces. "If the idea
could only be applied!"

"It can be," said Abner severely. "It must be."

"Yes, it is a very complicated question," the other repeated. "I have
read your stories," he went on immediately. "Two or three of them
impressed me very much. I hope we shall become better acquainted."

"Thank you," said Abner stiffly. Whyland meant to be cordial, but Abner
found him patronizing. He could not endure to be patronized by anybody,
least of all by a person of mental calibre inferior to his own. He
resented too the other's advantage in age (Whyland was ten or twelve
years his senior), and his advantage in experience (for Whyland had lived
in the city all his life, as Abner could not but feel).

"I should be glad if you could lunch with me at the club," said Whyland
in the friendliest fashion possible. "I am on my way there now."

"Club"--fatal word; it chilled Abner in a second. He knew about clubs!
Clubs were the places where the profligate children of Privilege drank
improper drinks and told improper stories and kept improper hours. Abner,
who was perfectly pure in word, thought and deed and always in bed
betimes, shrank from a club as from a lazaret.