Of that group Bill
was always a willing member. The others he met courteously when he was
compelled to meet them; otherwise he passed them up entirely.
When he was not absorbed in a book or magazine, he spent his time in
some downtown haunt, having acquired membership in a club as a
concession to their manner of life. Once he came home with flushed
face and overbright eyes, radiating an odor of whisky. Hazel had never
seen him drink to excess. She was correspondingly shocked, and took no
pains to hide her feelings. But Bill was blandly undisturbed.
"You don't need to look so horrified," he drawled. "I won't beat you
up nor wreck the furniture. Inadvertently took a few too many, that's
all. Nothing else to do, anyhow. Your friend Brooks' Carlton Club is
as barren a place as one of your tea fights. They don't do anything
much but sit around and drink Scotch and soda, and talk about the
market. I'm drunk, and glad of it. If I were in Cariboo Meadows,
now," he confided owlishly, "I'd have some fun with the natives. You
can't turn yourself loose here. It's too blame civilized and proper.
I had half a notion to lick a Johnnie or two, just for sport, and then
I thought probably they'd have me up for assault and battery.
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