long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the station?
Since two? Then let him come round at half-past six!

The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of those
political institutions of the upper middle class which have seen better
days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of being
talked about, it betrayed a disappointing vitality. People had grown
tired of saying that the 'Disunion' was on its last legs. Old Jolyon
would say it, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating
to well-constituted Clubmen.

"Why do you keep your name on?" Swithin often asked him with profound
vexation. "Why don't you join the 'Polyglot'? You can't get a wine like
our Heidsieck under twenty shillin' a bottle anywhere in London;" and,
dropping his voice, he added: "There's only five hundred dozen left. I
drink it every night of my life."

"I'll think of it," old Jolyon would answer; but when he did think of it
there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance fee, and it would
take him four or five years to get in. He continued to think of it.

He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the
political doctrines of his Club, had even been known to allude to them as
'wretched stuff,' and it afforded him pleasure to continue a member in
the teeth of principles so opposed to his own. He had always had a
contempt for the place, having joined it many years ago when they refused
to have him at the 'Hotch Potch' owing to his being 'in trade.' As if he
were not as good as any of them! He naturally despised the Club that did
take him. The members were a poor lot, many of them in the City
--stockbrokers, solicitors, auctioneers--what not! Like most men of
strong character but not too much originality, old Jolyon set small store
by the class to which he belonged. Faithfully he followed their customs,
social and otherwise, and secretly he thought them 'a common lot.'

Years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the
recollection of his defeat at the 'Hotch Potch'; and now in his thoughts
it was enshrined as the Queen of Clubs. He would have been a member all
these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod way his proposer, Jack
Herring, had gone to work, they had not known what they were doing in
keeping him out. Why! they had taken his son Jo at once, and he believed
the boy was still a member; he had received a letter dated f