If, however, it swayed to the right or left, or better still, was folded tight, then it was equally conclusive that not only was the coast clear, but that any number of things might happen, either at Tiffany's, or the Academy, or wherever else one of those altogether accidental--"Why-who-would-have-thought-of-seeing-you- here" kind of meetings take place--meetings so delightful in themselves because so unexpected.
These outlooks, too, were useful in solving many of the social problems that afflicted the young men about town; the identity, for instance, of the occupant of the hansom who had just driven past, heavily veiled, together with her destination and her reason for being out at all; why the four-in-hand went up empty and came back with a pretty woman beside the "Tooler," and then turned up a side street toward the Park, instead of taking the Avenue into its confidence; what the young wife of the old doctor meant when she waved her hand to the occupant of a third-story window, and who lived there, and why--None of their business, of course--never could be--but each and every escapade, incident and adventure being so much thrice-blessed manna to souls stranded in the desert waste of club conversation.
None of these things interested our hero, and he soon found himself listening to the talk at an adjoining table.

Topping, a young lawyer, Whitman Bunce, a man of leisure--unlimited leisure--and one or two others, were rewarming some of the day's gossip.
"Had the gall to tell Bob's man he couldn't sleep in linen sheets; had his own violet silk ones in his trunk, to match his pajamas.

The goat had 'em out and half on the bed when Bob came in and stopped him.

Awful row, I heard, when Mrs.Bob got on to it.

He'll never go there again." "And I heard," broke in Bunce, "that she ordered the trap and sent him back to the station." Other bits drifted Jack's way: "Why he was waiting at the stage-door and she slipped out somewhere in front.