“Never,” said the Duke.
“Come and dine with me.”
“I am not a member of the club.”
“We don’t care at all about that. Anybody can take in anybody.”
“Does not that make it promiscuous?”
“Well;—no; I don’t know that it does. It seems to go on very well. I daresay there are some cads there sometimes. But I don’t know where one doesn’t meet cads. There are plenty in the House of Commons.”
“There is something in that, Silverbridge, which makes me think that you have not realised the difference between private and public life. In the former you choose your own associates and are responsible for your choice. In the latter you are concerned with others for the good of the State; and though, even for the State’s sake, you would not willingly be closely allied with those whom you think dishonest, the outward manners and fashions of life need create no barriers. I should not turn up my nose at the House of Commons because some constituency might send them an illiterate shoemaker; but I might probably find the illiterate shoemaker an unprofitable companion for my private hours.”
“I don’t think there will be any shoemakers at the Beargarden.”
“Even if there were I would go and dine with you. I shall be glad to see the place where you, I suppose, pass many hours.”
“I find it a very good shop to dine at. The place at the House is so stuffy and nasty. Besides, one likes to get away for a little time.”
“Certainly. I never was an advocate for living in the House. One should always change the atmosphere.” Then they got into a cab and went to the club. Silverbridge was a little afraid of what he was doing. The invitation had come from him on the spur of the moment, and he hardly ventured to think that his father would accept it. And now he did not quite know how the Duke would go through the ceremony. “The other fellows” would all come and stare at a man whom they had all been taught to regard as the most un-Beargardenish of men. But he was especially anxious to make things pleasant for his father.
“What shall I order?” said the son as he took the Duke into a dressing-room to wash his hands. The Duke suggested that anything sufficient for his son would certainly be sufficient for him.
Nothing especial occurred during the dinner, which the Duke appeared to enjoy very much. “Yes; I think it is very good soup,” he said. “I don’t think they ever give me any soup at home.” Then the son expressed his opinion that unless his father looked about rather more sharply, “they” very soon would provide no dinner at all, remarking that experience had taught him that the less people demanded the more they were “sat upon.” The Duke did like his dinner—or rather he liked the feeling that he was dining with his son. A report that the Duke of Omnium was with Lord Silverbridge soon went round the room, and they who were justified by some previous acquaintance came up to greet him. To all who did so he was very gracious, and was specially so to Lord Popplecourt, who happened to pass close by the table.
“I think he is a fool,” whispered Silverbridge as soon as Popplecourt had passed.
“What makes you think so?”
“We thought him an ass at Eton.”
“He has done pretty well, however.”
“Oh yes, in a way.”
“Somebody has told me that he is a careful man about his property.”
“I believe he is all that,” said Silverbridge.
“Then I don’t see why you should think him a fool.”
To this Silverbridge made no reply; partly perhaps because he had nothing to say—but hindered also by the coming in of Tregear. This was an accident, the possibility of which had not crossed him. Unfortunately too the Duke’s back was turned, so that Tregear, as he walked up the room, could not see who was sitting at his friend’s table. Tregear coming up stood close to the Duke’s elbow before he recognised the man, and spoke some word or two to Silverbridge. “How do you do, Mr. Tregear,” said the Duke, turning round.
“Oh, my Lord, I did not know that it was you.”
“You hardly would. I am quite a stranger here. Silverbridge and I came up from the House together, and he has been hospitable enough to give me a dinner. I will tell you an odd thing for a London man, Mr. Tregear. I have not dined at a London club for fifteen years before this.”
“I hope you like it, sir,” said Silverbridge.
“Very much indeed. Good evening, Mr. Tregear. I suppose you have to go to your dinner now.”
Then they went into one of the rooms upstairs to have coffee, the son declining to go into the smoking-room, and assuring his father that he did not in the least care about a cigar after dinner. “You would be smothered, sir.” The Duke did as he was bidden and went upstairs. There was in truth a strong reason for avoiding the publicity of the smoking-room. When bringing his father to the club he had thought nothing about Tregear but he had thought about Tifto. As he entered he had seen Tifto at a table dining alone, and had bobbed his head at him. Then he had taken the Duke to the further end of the room, and had trusted that fear would keep the Major in his place. Fear had kept the Major in his place. When the Major learned who the stranger was, he had become silent and reserved. Before the father and son had finished their dinner, Tifto had gone to his cigar; and so that danger was over.
“By George, there’s Silverbridge has got his governor to dinner,” said Tifto, standing in the middle of the room, and looking round as though he were announcing some confusion of the heavens and earth.
“Why shouldn’t Lord Silverbridge have his father
