Once or twice I walked away, bent on its fulfilment. But
I could not proceed further than a few yards. I halted, looked over my
shoulder, was drawn back to the spot, drawn by the crude, insistent
anthem of the pick-axes. The sun slanted towards Notting Hill. Still I
loitered, spellbound... I was aware of some one at my side, some one
asking me a question. `I beg your pardon?' I said. The stranger was a
tall man, bronzed and bearded. He repeated his question. In answer, I
pointed silently to the ruin. `That?' he gasped. He stared vacantly. I
saw that his face had become pale under its sunburn. He looked from
the ruin to me. `You're not joking with me?' he said thickly. I
assured him that I was not. I assured him that this was indeed the
club to which he had asked to be directed. `But,' he stammered, `but--
but--' `You were a member?' I suggested. `I am a member,' he cried.
`And what's more, I'm going to write to the Committee.' I suggested
that there was one fatal objection to such a course. I spoke to him
calmly, soothed him with words of reason, elicited from him, little by
little, his sad story. It appeared that he had been a member of the
club for ten years, but had never (except once, as a guest) been
inside it. He had been elected on the very day on which (by compulsion
of his father) he set sail for Australia.
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