One notable tradition, upheld by many of the stuffier clubs, is that discussions of a business or professional nature are strictly forbidden. So an astute observer might be intrigued to see Sir David Finch, director of quantitative trading at a prominent London-headquartered merchant bank, sitting down for dinner at a table for two in the great eating room at White’s on St. James’s Street. Sir David is not actually a member of the club—although he’s eminently clubbable—but is here as a guest of his host, a fellow known to those of the current membership who pay attention to him as “Old George.”

It’s not immediately obvious why he might carry that nickname; Old George certainly doesn’t look ancient. Perhaps he’s a well-preserved sixty, or a mature-looking forty. If you asked the club’s membership secretary at the right stage in the executive’s life cycle he might reminisce about Old George’s striking resemblance to an even older Old George, who had relinquished his membership the year that the New Old George was proposed. But you’d have to go back beyond living memory to find out whether Old Old George was in fact the successor to an even Older Old Old George. And who would ever bother to do that? Suffice to say that the club has, for nearly two centuries, quietly harbored a member called Old George who appears to be somewhere between forty and sixty years of age and who may or may not be the same person.

Sir David and Old George dine in subdued, if slightly tense silence—business must be deferred until stomachs have been filled, but Sir David is nevertheless curious as to the reason for this summons. So they chat quietly (Old George has an eye for the horses, and Sir David, despite not being a turf man, is well-briefed) and steadily work through soup and mains and a bottle of claret. Until finally Old George pushes back his plate (Sir David has already finished, but Old George eats slowly, cutting his salmon steak and vegetables into small portions and chewing them with bovine deliberation) and, leaning against the back of his chair, stares at Sir David with eyes slightly sunken beneath beetled and slightly unkempt eyebrows. “I gather there have been some exciting developments in your branch, Sir David. Can you tell me about them, or is it still super-hush-hush?”

“Well I, ah, that is to say—” Sir David stares back, then glances around. “I think.” Another glance. “Are we in trustworthy company?”

Old George smiles thinly. “Nobody around here ever pays me any attention. The truth flies from your lips to my ears, and no further.” He idly picks up the dessert fork—as yet unused—and raps it on the table. Not a single head turns. “You see.”