Siward brooded over his cup, head bent.

Fleetwood made more noise than necessary with his ice.
"I miss you like hell!" said Fleetwood musingly, measuring out the old rye from the quaint decanter.

"Why did you drop the Saddle Club, Stephen ?" "I'm not riding; I have no use for it," replied Siward.
"You've cut out the Proscenium Club, too, and the Owl's Head, and the Trophy.

It's a shame, Stephen." "I'm tired of clubs." "Don't talk that way." "Very well, I won't," said Siward, smiling.

"Tell me what is happening--out there," he made a gesture toward the window; "all the gossip the newspapers miss.