any one really worthy of the Junta; but because the Junta, having thriven since the eighteenth century, must not die. Suppose—one never knew—he were struck by lightning, the Junta would be no more. So, not without reluctance, but unanimously, he had elected The MacQuern, of Balliol, and Sir John Marraby, of Brasenose.
To-night, as he, a doomed man, went up into the familiar rooms, he was wholly glad that he had thus relented. As yet, he was spared the tragic knowledge that it would make no difference.[1]
The MacQuern and two other young men were already there.
"Mr. President," said The MacQuern, "I present Mr. Trent-Garby, of Christ Church."
"The Junta is honoured," said the Duke, bowing.
Such was the ritual of the club.
The other young man, because his host, Sir John Marraby, was not yet on the scene, had no locus standi, and, though a friend of The MacQuern, and well known to the Duke, had to be ignored.
A moment later, Sir John arrived. "Mr. President," he said, "I present Lord Sayes, of Magdalen."
"The Junta is honoured," said the Duke, bowing.
- ↑ The Junta has been reconstituted. But the apostolic line was broken, the thread was snapped; the old magic is fled.
