Lord, man, nobody ever eats at these damned dinners. They CAN'T
eat. They're sick of dinners. That crowd out there takes tea and
things at five or six o'clock. They wouldn't any more think of
eating anything at a dinner after the caviar and oysters than you'd
think of flying. It's a waste of time and money to give 'em real
food. This is the second time I've tried my scheme and it's worked
both times. I can serve this same dinner twenty times. Everything's
made of wax and papier mache. See what I mean? And I'll leave it
to you that there isn't a soul out there who is any the wiser. By
George, it's a great invention. I'm going to patent it. Come on;
let's get in there. They're howling for us to begin."

Graydon, his mind full of Jane, played at a table with Colonel
Sedgwick, a blase old Knickerbocker whose sole occupation in life was
saying rude things about other people. To-night he was particularly
attentive to his profession. He kept Graydon and the two women
sitting straight and uncomfortable in their chairs between hands
and positively chilled while the game went on.

Graydon's game was a poor one at best, but he was playing abominably
on this occasion. He could not tear his thoughts from the ship
that was drawing nearer and nearer to New York harbour with each
succeeding minute. In his mind's eye he could look far out over
the black waters and see the lonely vessel as it rushed on through
the night. He wondered if Jane were asleep or awake and thinking
of him.

The Colonel's irascibility finally drove him from the game.
He apologised for his wretched playing, but the Colonel did not
apologise for the disagreeable things he had said.