“I think,” rejoins Twemlow, feelingly, “that it is the best club in London.”

Veneering again blesses him, plunges downstairs, rushes into his Hansom, and directs the driver to be up and at the British Public, and to charge into the City.

Meanwhile Twemlow, in an increasing hurry of spirits, gets his hair down as well as he can⁠—which is not very well; for, after these glutinous applications it is restive, and has a surface on it somewhat in the nature of pastry⁠—and gets to the club by the appointed time. At the club he promptly secures a large window, writing materials, and all the newspapers, and establishes himself; immoveable, to be respectfully contemplated by Pall Mall. Sometimes, when a man enters who nods to him, Twemlow says, “Do you know Veneering?” Man says, “No; member of the club?” Twemlow says, “Yes. Coming in for Pocket-Breaches.” Man says, “Ah! Hope he may find it worth the money!” yawns, and saunters out. Towards six o’clock of the afternoon, Twemlow begins to persuade himself that he is positively jaded with work, and thinks it much to be regretted that he was not brought up as a Parliamentary agent.