"Hello, Macdougan, where the hell are you going?"
"I'm going to a wedding. What are you doing here this time of day, Henley?"
"I'm off to a wedding too." Henley had a booming voice; he was a tall dark man with a moustache, thickwaisted.
"Cham Mason's wedding?"
"Sure.... I didn't know that dignified people like you went in for weddings."
"I don't often, Henley.... But I roomed with Cham Mason when we were freshmen."
"Frankly, Macdougan, I find weddings of great anthropological interest.... Savage survivals."
They were in a crowd of very dressed people passing through a gate in the end platform, all about them fur coats, flowers, fuzzy hats, bright shoes. "O, how do you do, Mrs. Glendinning! Yes, dreadfully cold. Why everybody anyone ever knew in the world is here? No, those are the Pittsburgh people. Imagine having a special train. Yes, those are the Harrison-Smiths, my dear."
"Say, Macdougan, suppose we get in the smoker where we can chat quietly," whispered Henley fitting his derby back on his head. "This is too much of a good thing.... There's something so prurient about women at an affair like this."
"After all a wedding.... Go ahead."