human
Whoop-de-doodle company. Mrs. Duff said it was awfully sad, but, glancing at my companion, I confess I could not see but that she was bearing up well. She was talking gayly to the literary fellow on her right. The Duffs, you see, have a penchant for queer people. The Tommy Tattlers, of course, are nice, as are Harry Pumley and Sally Bilberry, but where they ever raked up that Miss Sapper, the artist, and Julius Hogginson Fairfield, is beyond me. Mrs. Duff told me over oysters that Fairfield was awfully clever, and had written
gpt
The Smash, the heaviest-selling novel of the day. He had been taken up by the Twitters, who rather pride themselves on not being exclusive. I have no personal objection to literary people and their kind, but it is so seldom that they know anything. Fairfield, for instance, did not understand that he was to talk half the time to Mrs. Tommy Tattler, and give me a chance with Mrs. Underbunk. Instead, he took up her entire dinner, telling her how he happened to write
human
The Smash,