"Ah, Lothian," he said, as one or two other people came up and some one gave a copious order for drinks, "still alternating between the prayer book and the decanter? I must congratulate you on 'Surgit Amari.' I read it, and it made me green with envy to think how many thousand copies you had sold of it." "You've kept the colour, Edgar," he said, looking into the little creature's face, but the words stabbed through him, nevertheless. How true they were--superficially--how they expressed--and must express--the view of his old disreputable companions. They envied him his cunning--as they thought it--they would have given their ears to have possessed the same power of profitable hypocrisy--as they thought it. Meanwhile they spoke virtuously to each other about him. "Gilbert Lothian the author of 'Surgit Amari'!--it would make a cat laugh!" One can't throw off one's past like a dirty shirt--Gilbert began to wish he had not come here. "I ought never to be seen in these places," he thought, forgetting that it was only the sting of the little man's malice that provoked the truth. But Paradil, kindly Paradil with the bully's face and a heart bursting with dropsical good nature, speedily intervened. Other men joined the circle; "rounds of drinks" were paid for by each person according to the ritual of such an occasion as this. In half an hour, when the theatre began to empty, Lothian was really, definitely drunk. Hot circles expanded and contracted within his head. His face became pale and very grave in expression, as he walked out into Leicester Square upon Paradil's supporting arm. There was a portentous dignity in his voice as he gave the address of his club to the cabman. As he shook hands with Paradil out of the window, tears came into his eyes, as he thought of the other's drunken, wasted life. "If I can only help you in any way, old chap--" he tried to say, and then sank back in oblivion upon the cushions. He was quite unconscious of anything during the short drive to St. James's Street, and when the experienced cabman pulled down the flag of the taximeter and opened the door, he sat there like a log. The X Club was not fashionable, but it was reputable and of old establishment. It was fairly easy to get into--for the people whom the election committee wanted there--exceedingly difficult for the wrong set of people. Very many country gentlemen--county people, but of moderate means--belonged to it; the Major-General and the Admiral were not infrequent visitors; several Judges were on the members' list and looked in now and again. As far as the Arts went, they were but poorly represented. There was no sparkle, no night-life about the place. The painters, actors and writers preferred a club that began to brighten up about eleven o'clock at night--just when the X became dreary. Not more than a dozen suppers were served at the staid building in St. James' on any night of the week.