up. He put it on health,
but I believe it was just freakishness. He always was an odd chap,
and of course he grows odder as he grows older." But just at that
moment another exciting result came, trickling down the tape, and
the hubbub was renewed.

Philip Vaughan was, as he put it in his languid way, "rather fond
of clubs," so long as they were not political, and he spent a good
deal of his time at the Travellers', the Athenaeum, and the United
Universities, and was a member of some more modern institutions.
He had plenty of acquaintances, but no friends--at least of his
own age. The Argus-eyed surveyors of club-life noticed that the
only people to whom he seemed to talk freely and cheerfully were
the youngest members; and he was notoriously good-natured in helping
young fellows who wished to join his clubs, and did his utmost to
stay the hand of the blackballer.

He had a very numerous cousinship, but did not much cultivate it.
Sometimes, yielding to pressure, he would dine with cousins in
London; or pay a flying visit to them in the country; but in order,
as it was supposed to avoid these family entanglements, he lived
at Wimbledon, where he enjoyed, in a quiet way, his garden and
his library, and spent most of the day in solitary rides among
the Surrey hills. When winter set in he generally vanished towards
the South of Europe, but by Easter he was back again at Wimbledon,
and was to be found pretty often at one or other of his clubs.

This was Philip Vaughan, as people knew him in 1880. Some liked
him; some pitied him; some rather despised him; but no one took
the trouble to understand him; and indeed, if anyone had thought
it worth while to do so, the attempt would probably have been
unsuccessful; for Vaughan never talked of the past, and to understand
him in 1880 one must have known him as he had been thirty years
before.

In 1850 two of the best known of the young men in society were
Arthur Grey and Philip Vaughan. They were, and had been ever since
their schooldays at Harrow, inseparable friends. The people to
whom friendship is a sealed and hopeless mystery were puzzled by
the alliance. "What have those two fellows in common?" was the
constant question, "and yet you never see them apart." They shared
lodgings in Mount Street, frequented the same clubs, and went,
night after night, to the same diners and balls. They belonged,
in short, to the same set: "went everywhere," as the phrase is,
and both were ex