"An unfortunate affair of the heart," answered Indiman—an exquisite piece of audacity at which I frowned, and then perforce had to smile. "It comes within your rule, I trust?"
"For limited membership only," answered Dr. Magnus. "In fact, we rather discourage victims of sentimental reverses, it being invariably impossible to determine whether the transaction is finally to show a profit or a loss. Then, too, the quick recoveries—but we'll let it stand at that. Now, with yourself?"
"I," said Indiman, gravely, "am a mathematician by instinctive preference and early training, but I have never been able to cross the 'Ass's Bridge,' the Forty-seventh problem of Euclid. Incidentally, I may mention that I am a golf-player with a handicap of eighteen."
"A double first," commented the proprietor of the Utinam Club. "I perceive, Mr. Indiman, that you are bent upon amusing yourself; and since circumstances have undeniably favored you, you may continue to do so. But not at my expense," and thereupon he mentioned a figure for initiation and dues that made me sit up. But Indiman settled without flinching; he happened to have his check-book with him, and the remaining formalities were quickly discharged.
"And now, gentlemen, let me show you about the club," said Dr. Magnus, affably. "Will you be good enough to follow me?"
He led the way into the hall, and thence into the cloister-like passage communicating with the "House in the Middle of the Block." I glanced out at the court-yard as we passed a window; it was most ingeniously planned to take the utmost advantage of its limited area. An antique Italian fountain occupied a niche in the opposite wall, and on either side were sedilia flanked by bay-trees in tubs and two or three fine specimens of the Japanese dwarf oak. A bas-relief in plaster of the Elgin marbles ran friezelike the full length of the party wall, and fixed immediately above the fountain niche the terrible mask of the Medusa face looked down upon us. The time of the year being late in March, there was no snow upon the ground, and I could see that the ground of the court-yard was divided into four garden-beds, separated from each other by narrow paths of broad, red tile bordered by box. All in all it was a charming little bit of formal gardening; I could imagine how pretty it would be on a spring morning, when the beds should be gay with crocuses and tulips.
We were admitted into the club proper by a liveried servant, and from the handsome oak-panelled vestibule we passed into a lofty apartment hung with pictures and filled with miscellaneous objects of art. All, without exception, were execrable—miserable daubs of painting, criminal essays in plastic and decorative work, and a collection of statuary that could be adequately matched only by the horrors in Central Park. "Our art gallery, gentlemen," explained Dr. Magnus.
Art gallery indeed! To me it was the most melancholy of exhibitions, but Indiman was enraptured.
"What a magnificent record of failure!" he exclaimed. "What miracles of ineptitude!" and Dr. Magnus smiled, well pleased.
We ascended to the next floor. Here was the library, lined ceiling-high with books that had fallen still-born from the press. Gigantic cabinet presses occupied the centre of the room, the final depository of countless "unavailable" MSS. In an adjoining room were glass-cases crowded with mechanical models of unsuccessful inventions. Naturally, I expected to see a large section devoted to the resolution of the perpetual-motion problem, but in this I was disappointed, not a single specimen of the kind could I discover.