Gallatin sank into the chair that Van Duyn had vacated. These were his accustomed haunts, these were his associates, but he now felt ill at ease and out of place in their company. He came here in the afternoons sometimes, but the club only made his difficulties greater. He listened silently to the gossip of the widening group of men, of somebody’s coup down town, of Larry Kane’s trip to the Rockies, of the opening of the hunting season on Long Island, the prospects of a gay winter and the thousand and one happenings that made up the life of the leisurely group of men about him. The servant brought the tray and laid the glasses.
“Won’t change your mind, Phil?” asked Colonel Broadhurst again.
Gallatin straightened. “No, thanks,” he repeated.
“That’s right,” laughed the Colonel jovially. “The true secret of drinking is to drink when you don’t want it—and refuse when you do.”
“Gad! Crosby, for a man who never refuses—” began Kane.
“It only shows what a martyr I am to the usages of society,” concluded the Colonel with a chuckle.
“How’s the crop of buds this year?” queried Larry Kane.
“Ask ‘Bibby’ Worthington,” suggested Percy Endicott. “He’s got ’em all down, looks, condition, action, pedigree——”
“Bigger than usual,” said the gentleman appealed to, “queens, too, some of ’em.”
“And have you picked out the lucky one already?” laughed Spencer.