“You’re not still thinking of that damned war business, are you? That’s all forgotten long ago—not that it ever applied to you. Or is it Wendheim and Lemuels? They weren’t blackballed because they were . . . because of their religion. It was simply that this club has always asked for other qualifications besides wealth and business success. That ass Erdlingham didn’t realize it, or they’d got the whip hand of him or something—he’s in all their things—and he put them up and of course they just got pilled—not the sort we want here. You are—you’d get in without the least doubt.” Hessel’s hand lightly touched his companion’s sleeve. “You are a good friend, Fratten,” he said, “a good deal better than I deserve. Don’t you see that that’s one reason why I won’t risk this—you know what your position would be if it didn’t come off. No, don’t go on. I’m more grateful than I can say, but I shall not change my mind.” Fratten sighed. “All right, Leo,” he said. “I’m really sorry, but I respect your attitude. It’s more my loss than yours, anyway. Come on; we must be off. I’ve got a Hospital Board meeting at three and I must look in at the bank first.” The two men made their way out into the wide hall, with its handsome double staircase, recovered their overcoats (it was October) and hats from the pegs where they had hung them, and were soon in the street. As they turned into Cornhill Fratten threw away the cigar that he had been smoking, and cleared his throat. “I’ve got something in the way of a confession to make to you, Leo,” he said. “I ought to have made it before, but I’m not sure that I’m not rather ashamed of myself. I told you that I’d been to an old Grendonian dinner last night. Well, I met a fellow there who was a great friend of mine at school, though I hadn’t seen him since. He was a soldier, did damn well in the war, commanded a division in France towards the end and a district in India afterwards. I don’t think he’d ever lived in London till he retired a couple of years ago—anyhow we’d never met. When he left the army he didn’t settle down in the country to grow moss and grouse at the Government like most of them do. He . . . are you listening, old chap?” Hessel had been looking straight in front of him with an expression that suggested that his thoughts might be on some other and more important subject, but he emphatically repudiated the implied charge of inattention. “Yes, yes, of course I am. Go on—interesting career. Who is he? What does he do?” Sir Garth, as other and lesser men, liked to tell his story in his own way. He paid no attention to the questions. “As I was saying, he didn’t settle down to a life of promenades and old ladies at Cheltenham; he set up as a bold bad company promoter—and with no mean success.” “Who is he?—What’s his name?” repeated Hessel. “Lorne. Major-General Sir Hunter Lorne, K.C.B., K.C. This and K.C. That. He asked me to . . .” But his companion had stopped.