I've talked Dr.Grisby to death; I've talked Gumble to death; I've read myself stupid.

What's going on, Billy ?" So Fleetwood sketched for him a gay cartoon of events, caricaturing various episodes in the social kaleidoscope which might interest him.
He gossiped cynically, but without malice, about people they both knew, about engagements, marriages, and divorces, plans and ambitions; about those absent from the metropolis and the newcomers to be welcomed.
He commented briefly on the opera, reviewed the newer plays at the theatres, touched on the now dormant gaiety which had made the season at nearby country clubs conspicuous; then drifted into the hunting field, gossiping pleasantly in the vernacular about horses and packs and drag-hunts and stables, and what people thought of the new English hounds of the trial pack, and how the new M.F.H., Maitland Gray, had managed to break so many bones at Southbury.
Politics were touched upon, and they spoke of the possibility of Ferrall going to the Assembly, the sport of boss-baiting having become fashionable among amateurs, and providing a new amusement for the idle rich.
So city, State, and national issues were run through lightly, business conditions noticed, the stock market speculated upon; and presently conversation died out, with a yawn from Fleetwood as he looked into his empty glass at the last bit of ice.
"Don't do that, Billy," smiled Siward.

"You haven't discoursed upon art, literature, and science yet, and you can't go until you've adjusted the affairs of the nation for the next twenty-four hours." "Art ?" yawned Fleetwood.

"Oh, pictures?
Don't like 'em.

Nobody ever looks at 'em except debutantes, who do it out of deviltry, to floor a man at a dinner or a dance." "How about literature ?" inquired Siward gravely.