not know, and she had only just remembered, about that dough-bun.

CHAPTER X

HONOUR

Hubert meanwhile was enjoying quite another sort of artistic evening.
On first arrival, indeed, at the Club (which proved to meet in a Hotel
Coffee Room), he found himself wondering whether he might not have been
wiser in keeping to the old arrangement. The Lewisham Kit Kats, on
entry to their circle, did not promise so much intellectual reward as
G. K. Shaw and the scorned Institute. They had not the exotic charm of
their great prototype.

He had imagined, always, a band of young enthusiasts in Literature,
fresh maybe from the 'Varsity, who would be glad to hear what he had
got to say and welcome him to their--it might be--weekly dinner. But
here were no evening suits except his own, of which he grew now only
too aware. The common dress was dark suit, bow-tie, and moustache; or
with the women--for it was "mixed"--what he imagined would be blouse
and skirt. They were a frowsy-looking lot, he told himself; horribly
genial; and he more than suspected them of being Bohemian. There was a
tortured look of gladness upon every face. They bowed elaborately and
shook hands with fervour, until the whole room buzzed with brotherly
salutes. And Hubert, in his dress-suit, stood among them. One by one
the members were brought up and all of them shook hands. Not one among
the sixty who failed to be very proud to meet him. Hubert sighed for
Helena and G. K. Shaw, finding his only means of consolation in
elaborating it as a good story. He wished that he could say with truth
that they had not an _h_ among them, but this was not so. He would
have liked them better, he decided, if that had been true. They were
snobs in their own way, he felt confident, and their gentility was an
affair of effort. They were that trying set, the in-betweens....

It was with genuine relief he heard that dinner was now served, and in
they trooped: he first with his allotted woman; the rest, all
apologetic smiles, falling in anyhow behind. They settled at the
tables in a hungry silence. Hubert could see the waiters smiling at
his evening dress,--or thought he could, which was equally unpleasant.
He turned hurriedly to his neighbour, whose name he had failed to catch
in his agitation. He only remembered the friendly President murmuring
in his ear: "Her brother is a book-reviewer," as though that gave her a
niche all apart.

"How often do you have