"No—not you—the fellow in the song. There will be a bunch more here, with similar delusions, about—eleven o'clock."
They smoked a while in silence, with a bow, now and then, to some one that passed, or a word about some one that arrived or departed. The piazza was filling up with the late comers, and with those from the grill-room. The tables were being set for dinner—rubber-shod waiters flitted about—the tinkle of glasses and the hiss of siphons punctuated the chatter of the crowd.
"How many are actually enjoying themselves?" said Pendleton with a wave of his hand to include every one on the piazza.
"Possibly half," Burgoyne answered—"the rest are bored to death."
"Half!" Pendleton laughed. "There isn't one in ten who wouldn't rather be somewhere else at this moment."
"Then there are about a hundred and fifty people who are putting up an amazingly good bluff."
"Bluff! What does that signify? Life is made up of bluff. We all are bluffers—it's a game of bluffer and bluffee—with the devil getting the one who is bluffed too often."
"You run to over-statements this afternoon!" Burgoyne remarked. "What is the matter; been pinched in the stock market—has some girl given you the mit—or are you letting some fool doctor tinker at you?"
"Which do you think it is?"