“Do we?” he growled. “It’s heads I win and tails you lose every time with a woman. What the hangment do I get except an empty purse?” If the gods smiled, he got rid of Dorothy, but that wasn’t to be emphasized now any more than was his very firm intention to spend on himself the lion’s share of the contents of that purse. These things were not to be mentioned because it was good to have a grievance against his wife, to throw responsibility for their enterprise on her shoulders, to seem wholly, when he was only half, convinced that they were doing an unwise thing. “Dorothy must come to London sometimes,” said Mrs. Verners placidly, “and Sir Harry is hardly to be reminded by letter of his negligence, whereas the sight of Dorothy--” “Well, well,” said Luke, “you’re proud of your poppet.” Secretly, he would have backed the looks of his daughter against those of any woman in the land. “But,” he went on, “we’re in London now, and London’s full of pretty women. Your wench may be the pride of Lancashire, but you’re pitting her here against the full field of the country--” “Mr. Verners, you are vulgar.” “I’m stating facts,” he said. “We’re here to catch Whitworth and I am indicating to your woman’s intelligence and your motherly prejudice that the bait you’re offering may not look so juicy here as it did at home where it hadn’t its peer.” So he insured himself against failure, and the particular source of his ill-humor as he prepared to go out on the day after their arrival in town was not mental but physical. To jam gouty feet, used to roomy riding boots, into natty gear ought to be nothing. In the past it had been nothing, when he had drunk in the London air and found it the well of youth, but, this time, remarkably, the boots pinched unforgettably, and the realization that he hadn’t the resilience of youth, that he was in London yet hipped, in a play-ground yet grave, disheartened Mr. Verners, and it wasn’t till that skilled diplomat, the porter at Almack’s, recognized him instantly with a salute that Mr. Verners felt petulance oozed from him. It was a wonderful salute; it indicated the porter’s joy at seeing Mr. Verners, his regret that Mr. Verners was only an occasional visitor, his personal feeling that, but for the occasional visits of Mr. Verners, the life of the porter of Almack’s Club would not be worth living; it welcomed him home with a captivating, deferential flattery and the mollified gentleman was to meet with further balm inside the club, where play was not running spectacularly high and there were idle members eager for the simple distraction to be had from any face not wearisomely familiar. Besides, Mr. Verners came from Lancashire; London had heard of Lancashire recently and was willing to hear more. He came in without much assurance, but hesitation fled when he found himself the center of an interest not at all languid.