In the little card room upstairs at the staid old Chronos Club on Gramercy Park a heated argument was going on. It was late on a night something like two years ago, and a long succession of refreshments from the bar downstairs was, without doubt, contributing to the heat. Heberdon, Spurway, Hanwell, and Nedham, excellent fellows all, and good friends, had become involved in a discussion which had nothing to do with the game of bridge, and the cards were now lying unheeded on the table, while the players scowled and shook their fingers at each other and otherwise went through the absurd pantomime of gentlemen annoyed with each other.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Do you?”
“You talk as if you were the fount of all wisdom and we were humble worshippers
