cks." But
Lawton was seeing it through. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral
note, as our host to the cashier we hurried. The secretary bought a
penny box of matches and lit the great man's cigarette for him.
Endymion, equally stirred, ran to buy the ferry tickets for the
return voyage. "This time," he said, "I will be the ferry
godmother."

On the homeward passage a little drowse fell upon the two charter
members. They had lunched more richly than was their wont. "Oh,
these distressing, heavy lunches!" as Aldous Huxley cries in one of
his poems. But Lawton was still of bright vivacity. At that time the
club was perturbed by the coming Harding-Cox election. "Which of the
vice-presidents are you going to vote for?" he cried, and then said:
"It looks to me like Debs or dubs."

Endymion and the secretary looked at each other solemnly. The time
had come. "I, Endymion," said the chairman, "take thee, Lawton, to
have and to hold, as a member of the club."

And the secretary tenderly pronounced the society's formula for such
occasions: "There is no inanition in an initiation."

[Illustration]

CREED OF THE THREE HOURS FOR LUNCH CLUB

It has been suggested that the Three Hours for Lunch Club is an
immoral institution; that it is founded upon an insufficient respect
for the devotions of industry; that it runs counter to the form and
pressure of the age; that it encourages a greedy and rambling humour
in the young of both sexes; that it even punctures, in the bosoms of
settled merchants and rotarians, that capsule of efficiency and
determination by which Great Matters are Put Over. It has been said,
in short, that the Three Hours for Lunch Club should be more
clandestine and reticent about its truancies.

Accordingly, it seems good to us to testify concerning Lunches and
the philosophy of Lunching.

There are Lunches of many kinds. The Club has been privileged to
attend gatherings of considerable lustre; occasions when dishes of
richness and curiosity were dissected; when the surroundings were
not devoid of glamour and surreptitious pomp. The Club has been
convened in many different places: in resorts of pride and in
low-ceiled reeky taphouses; in hotels where those clear cubes of
unprofitable ice knock tinklingly in the goblets; in the brightly
tinted cellars of Greenwich Village; in the saloons of ships. But
the Club would give a false impression of its mind and heart if it
allowed any one to suppose th