"Come," said one of them to him, as the two met in the street, by accident, one evening,—"I want you to go with me."
"But why should I go with you? Or, rather, where are you going?" asked Armour.
"To meet some of our friends down at C—'s," replied the young man.
"What are you going to do there?" farther inquired Armour.
"Nothing more than to drink a glass of wine, and have some pleasant chit-chat. So come along."
"Will I be welcome?"
"Certainly you will. I'll guarantee that. Some half dozen of us have formed a little club, and each member has the privilege of inviting any one he pleases. To-night I invite you, and on the next evening I expect to see you present, not as a guest, but as a member. So come along, and see how you like us."
Armour had no definite object in view. He had walked out, because he felt rather listless at home, Blanche having retired with a sick headache. It required, therefore, no persuasion to induce him to yield to the friend's invitation. Arrived at C—'s, a fashionable house of refreshment, the two young men passed up stairs and entered one of the private apartments of the house, which they found handsomely furnished and brilliantly lighted. In this, gathered around a circular, or rather oblong table, were five or six young men, nearly all of them well known to Armour. On the table were bottles of wine and glasses—the latter filled.
"Just in time!" cried the president of the club. "Henry Armour, I bid you welcome! Here's a place waiting for you," placing his hand upon a chair by his side as he spoke. "And now," as Armour seated himself, "let me fill your glass. We were waiting for a sentiment to find its way out of some brain as you came in, and our brimming glasses had stood untasted for more than a minute. Can't you help us to a toast?"
"Here's to good fellowship!" said Armour, promptly lifting his glass, and touching it to that of the president.