“Yes. Rather nice. Yes, I did hear. The fellows blew him off upstairs. Kept it up till the steward shut 'em out. Awfully clever fellow, Minott. My Governor wanted me to do something in architecture, but it takes such a lot of time... Funny how a fellow will dress himself.” Biffton's sleepy eyes were sweeping the Avenue. “Pendergast just passed wearing white spats—A month too late for spats—ought to know better. Touch the bell, Breen, and say what.”
Again Jack thanked him, and again Biffton relapsed into silence. Rather a damper on a man of his calibre, when a fellow wouldn't touch a bell and say what.
Jack having a certain timidity about “butting in”—outsiders didn't do such things where he came from—settled himself into the depths of the comfortable leather-covered arm-chair and waited for Garry to finish his game. From where he sat he could not only overlook the small tables holding a choice collection of little tear-bottles, bowls of crushed ice and high-pressure siphons, but his eye also took in the stretch beyond, the club windows commanding the view up and down and quite across the Avenue, as well as the vista to the left.
This outlook was the most valuable asset the Magnolia possessed. If the parasol was held flat, with its back to the club-house, and no glimpse of the pretty face possible, it was, of course, unquestionable evidence to the member looking over the top of his cocktail that neither the hour or the place was propitious. 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. Billy was with her, so I heard.... When they got to Delmonico's there came near being a scrap.... No.... Never had a dollar on Daisy Belle, or any other horse....”