“I told the man to go to Sivwright’s club. It is called The Merlin’s Cave.”
The club proved to be a cellar filled with little tables. There was a commissionaire at the door and a book had to be signed. The rack of the cloakroom contained several silk-lined overcoats and opera-hats.
“It’s going to be damned expensive,” said Logan.
“I’ll pay,” replied Mendel. “It’s my fault.”
Two tall young men in immaculate evening dress had entered just after them. They gave out an air of wealth and cleanliness and made Logan and Oliver look common and shabby. Mendel hated the two young men. What had they done to look so well-fed and unruffled? Obviously they had only to hold out their hands to have everything they wanted put into them. . . . They looked slightly self-conscious and ashamed of themselves, and wore a look of alarmed expectancy as they went downstairs.
Why did they come there if they were ashamed? and why did they expect an Asmodean lewdness of an artists’ club, they for whom the flesh-markets of the music-hall promenades existed?
“Real swells, aren’t they?” said Oliver, overawed.
The strains of a small orchestra came floating up the stairs.
“Come on,” said Mendel, “I want to dance.” And he caught her by the wrist and dragged her downstairs.
A girl was standing on a table singing an idiotic song with a syncopated chorus which a few people took up in a half-hearted fashion. The sound of it was thin and depressing.