e, as it was also of Morris,
MacFarlane, Wright, old Partridge the painter, and Knight the sculptor.
For years this group of Centurions, after circling the rooms on meeting
nights, criticising the pictures and helping themselves to the punch,
had dropped into these same seats by the side of Peter.

And these were not the only chairs tacitly recognized as carrying
special privileges by reason of long usage. Over in the corner between
the two rooms could be found Bayard Taylor's chair--his for years,
from which he dispensed wisdom, adventure and raillery to a listening
coterie--King, MacDonough and Collins among them, while near the stairs,
his great shaggy head glistening in the overhead light, Parke Godwin
held court, with Sterling, Martin and Porter, to say nothing of still
older habitues who in the years of their membership were as much a part
of the fittings of the club as the smoke-begrimed portraits which lined
its walls.

On this Saturday night he had stepped into the clubhouse with more
than his usual briskness. Sweeping a comprehensive glance around as
he entered, as if looking for some one in the hall, he slipped off his
overcoat and hat and handed both to the negro servant in charge of the
cloak-room.

"George."

"Yes, Mr. Grayson."

"If anybody inquires for me you will find me either on this floor or in
the library above. Don't forget, and don't make any mistake.

"No, suh--ain't goin' to be no mistake."

This done, the old gentleman moved to the mirror, and gave a sidelong
glance at his perfectly appointed person--he had been dining at the
Portmans', had left the table early, and was in full evening dress.

The inspection proved that the points of his collar wanted straightening
the thousandth part of an inch, and that his sparse gray locks needed
combing a wee bit further toward his cheek bones. These, with a certain
rebellious fold in his necktie, having been brought into place, the
guardian of the Exeter entered the crowded room, picked a magazine from
the shelves and dropped into his accustomed seat.

Holker Morris and Lagarge now strolled in and drawing up to a small
table adjoining Peter's touched a tiny bell. This answered, and the
order given, the two renewed a conversation which had evidently been
begun outside, and which was of so absorbing a character that for a
moment Peter's face, half hidden by his book, was unnoticed.

"Oh!--that's you, Methusaleh, is it!" cried Morris at last. "Mo