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 débutantes, who do it out of deviltry, to floor a man at a dinner or a dance."
"How about literature?" inquired Siward gravely. "Anything doing?"
"Nothing in it," replied Fleetwood more gravely still. "It's another feminine bluff--like all that music talk they hand you after the opera."
"I see. And science?"
"Spider Flynn is matched to meet Kid Holloway; is that what you mean, Stephen? Somebody tumbled out of an air-ship the other day; is that what you mean? And they're selling scientific jewelry on Broadway at a dollar a quart; is that what you want to know?"
Siward rested his head on his hand with a smile. "Yes, that's about what I wanted to know, Billy--all about the arts and sciences. … Much obliged. You needn't stay any longer, if you don't want to."
"How soon will you be out?" inquired Fleetwood.
"Out? I don't know. I shall try to drive to the office to-morrow."
"Why the devil did you resign from all your clubs? How can I see you if I don't come here?" began Fleetwood impatiently. "I know, of course, that you're not going anywhere, but a man always goes to his club. You don't look well, Stephen. You are too much alone."
Siward did not answer. His face and body had certainly grown thinner since Fleetwood had last seen him. Plank, too, had been shocked at the change in him--the dark, hard lines under the eyes; the pallor, the curious immobility of the man, save for his fingers, which were always restless, now moving in search of some small object to worry and turn over and over, now nervously settling into a grasp on the arm of his chair.
"How is Amalgamated Electric?" asked Fleetwood, abruptly.
"I think it's all right. Want to buy some?" replied Siward, smiling.
Plank stirred in his chair ponderously. "Somebody is kicking it to pieces," he said.
"Somebody is trying to," smiled Siward.