Each man as he entered divested himself of his wet garments, warmed his hands at the blazing grate-fire, and, reaching over the long table, picked up a clay or corn-cob pipe, stuffing the bowl full of tobacco from a cracked Japanese pot that stood on the mantel. Then striking a match he settled himself into the nearest chair, joining in the general talk or smoking quietly, listening to what was being said about him. Now and then one would walk to the window, raise the sash, uncork a bottle of beer where Fred had placed it, empty its contents into one of the mugs, and resume his seat--mug in one hand, pipe in the other. Up to this time no work had been done, the courtesies of the club permitting none to begin until the member whose night it was had arrived. As the half-hour slipped away the men began to grow restless. "If it's Horn's night why the devil doesn't he come, Fred?" asked Waller, in a querulous tone. Although the great sheep-painter had lost his sobriquet since the old days, he had never parted with his right to growl. "He'll be here," cried Simmons from his seat by the piano. His fingers were still rippling gently over the keys, although he had stopped once just long enough to strip off his wet overcoat. "I met him at Margaret Grant's this afternoon. She had a little tea." "There every afternoon, isn't he, Simmons?" asked Munson, who was smoking quietly: "Shouldn't wonder," came the response between the trills. "How's that affair coming on?" came a voice out of the tobacco-smoke. "Same old way," answered someone at the lower end of the table--"still waiting for the spondulix." "Seen her last picture?" remarked Watson, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "The one she scooped the medal with?" "Yes. Rouser, isn't it?" called out Waller. "Best thing she has done yet. She's a great woman. Hello! there he is! This is a pretty time for him to put in an appearance!" The door opened and Oliver walked in, a wet umbrella in one hand, his coat-collar turned up, his mustache beaded with melted snow-drops. "What's it doing outside, Ollie, raining cats and dogs?" Jack called out. "No, going to clear up. It's stopped snowing and getting colder. Oh, what a night! I love a storm like this, it sets my blood tingling. Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen, but I couldn't help it. It won't make any difference; I can't begin, anyway. Bianchi won't be here for an hour. Just met him on the street--he's going to bring a guest, he says." "Who's he going to bring?" shouted Simmons, who had risen from his seat at the piano, and was now sorting out some sheets of music that Fred had just laid on its top. "He won't tell; says it's a surprise," answered Oliver, slipping off his coat. "A surprise, is it?" grumbled Waller. "I'll bet it's some greasy foreigner." He had left Simmons's side and was now standing by the mantel, filling a pipe from the bowl. "Bianchi has always got a lot of cranks about him."