"Who are they?" said Burgoyne.
"Porshinger and Murchison," Pendleton replied—"both new ones, also, since you've been gone. They are long on money but short on breeding and manners."
"How did they get in?"
"Climbed in some way—otherwise bought their way in. Porshinger is a capitalist, who capitalized some of the Board of Governors; and Murchison is a big broker who gave a couple of them tips that eventuated. Voilà!"
"They are bounders, I suppose—like Emerson?"
"Of a different kind. Emerson is a good sort—these fellows are bounders of the offensive type. Emerson wants to be a gentleman and tries to be one—Porshinger et al. neither wants to be nor tries. It is a great thing, now-a-days, being one of the Governors of a fashionable club—when the new rich are climbing upward on the golden ladder. Many impoverished fortunes have been restored, even to affluence, by prospective candidates for admission."
"Has it come to be so bad as that?" said Burgoyne astonished.
"It has. Within the last two years there have been at least a score of candidates elected to membership in this and other fashionable clubs who have bought their election by before-and-after favors to certain members of the Boards."
"What are we coming to?" Burgoyne exclaimed.
"The aristocracy of dollars. In a few years those of moderate means, like ourselves, will be rooted out of our place by the gold hogs. They will make it so expensive that we cannot belong. Already the old families are beginning to drop out because of the cost: the doubled dues—the higher priced card—the increased style of doing even the simplest things—and, if they have wives or daughters or both, the elaborate dressing that is necessary if they want them to look even half decent and to be asked anywhere. They can't afford to keep up the pace. So there's nothing to do but to drop out. Our time is coming, Burgoyne—we may last longer because we have no feminine appendages, but our limit will be reached, also—it is only a question of a very little longer."