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.