He was struck off the list at Boodle's three years ago for card-sharping--that thin-faced, fair-mustached man named Cadby.

I suppose Leithcourt doesn't know it, or he wouldn't have him up here among respectable folk." And my uncle, chewing the end of his cigar, sniffed angrily, seeming half inclined to give his friend a gentle hint that the name Cadby was placed beyond the pale of good society.
"Better not say anything about it," I urged.

"It's Leithcourt's own affair, uncle--not ours." "Yes, but if a man sets up a position in the country he mustn't be allowed to ask us to meet such fellows.

It's coming it a little too thick, Gordon.

We men can stand the women of the party, but the men--well, I tell you candidly, I shan't accept his invites to shoot again." "No, no, uncle," I protested.