At the corner of Northumberland Avenue an idea came to him. This Rochester belonged to several clubs, why not go and have luncheon at one of them on credit? It would save him for the moment from returning to the door towards which Fate was shepherding him, and he might be able to pick up some extra wrinkles about himself and his position. The idea was indicative of the daring of the man, though there was little enough danger in it. He was sure of passing muster at a club, since he had done so at home. He carried the names of two of Rochester’s clubs in his mind, the Pelican and the Senior Conservative. The latter seemed the more stodgy, the least likely to offer surprises in the way of shoulder clapping, irresponsible parties who might want to enter into general conversation.
He chose it, asked a policeman for directions, and made for Pall Mall.
Here another policeman pointed out to him the building he was in search of.
It stood on the opposite side of the way, a building of grey stone, vast and serious of feature, yet opulent and hinting of the best in all things relative to comfort.
It was historical. Disraeli had come down those steps, and the great Lord Salisbury had gone up them. Men, to enter this place, had to be born, not made, and even these selected ones had to put their names down at birth, if they wished for any chance of lunching there before they lost their teeth and hair.
It took twenty-one years for the elect to reach this place, and on the way they were likely to be slain by black balls.
Victor Jones just crossed the road and went up the steps.