heart from an inquisitive West End. Pickering's had, of
course, originally been a coffee-house; later, like many other
coffee-houses in the neighbourhood, it had developed into a proprietary
club. Misfortunes due to the caprices of taste and to competition had
brought about an arrangement by which the ownership was vested in a
representative committee. The misfortunes had continued, and at the
beginning of the century a crisis was reached, and Pickering's tried
hard to popularize itself, thereby doing violence to its feelings. Rules
were abated, and the entrance-fee fell. It was in this period that
Everard Lucas, whose ears were always open for useful items, heard of it
and suggested it to George. George wanted to join Lucas's club, which
was in St. James's Street itself, but Lucas wisely pointed out that if
they belonged to different clubs each would in practice have two clubs.
Moreover, he said that George might conceivably get a permanent bedroom
there. The first sight of the prim, picturesque square, the first hint
of scandal about the Duke of Wellington, decided George. It was
impossible for a man about town to refuse the chance of belonging to a
club in a Court where the Duke of Wellington had committed follies.

George was proposed, seconded, and duly elected, together with other new
blood. Some of the old blood naturally objected, but the feud was never
acute. Solely owing to the impression which his young face made on the
powerful and aged hall-porter, George obtained a bedroom. It was small,
and at the top of the house; but it was cheap, it solved the even more
tiresome and uncomfortable problem of lodging; and further it was a
bedroom at Pickering's, and George could say that he lived at his
club--an imposing social advantage. He soon learnt how to employ the
resources of the club for his own utmost benefit. Nobody could surpass
him in choosing a meal inexpensively. He could have his breakfast in his
bedroom for tenpence, or even sixpence when his appetite was poor. He
was well served by a valet who apparently passed his whole life on
stairs and landings. This valet, courteous rather in the style of old
Haim, had a brain just equal to the problems presented by his vocation.
Every morning George would say: "Now, Downs, how soon can I have my
bath?" or "Now, Downs, what can I have for breakfast?" And Downs would
conscientiously cerebrate, and come forth after some seconds with sound
solutions, such as: "I'll see