But at this there were present only "Jephson, MacShaughnassy, and Self"; and of Brown's name I find henceforth no further trace.

On Christmas eve we three met again, and my notes inform me that MacShaughnassy brewed some whiskey-punch, according to a recipe of his own, a record suggestive of a sad Christmas for all three of us.

No particular business appears to have been accomplished on either occasion.
Then there is a break until February 8th, and the assemblage has shrunk to "Jephson and Self." With a final flicker, as of a dying candle, my diary at this point, however, grows luminous, shedding much light upon that evening's conversation.
Our talk seems to have been of many things--of most things, in fact, except our novel.

Among other subjects we spoke of literature generally.
"I am tired of this eternal cackle about books," said Jephson; "these columns of criticism to every line of writing; these endless books about books; these shrill praises and shrill denunciations; this silly worship of novelist Tom; this silly hate of poet Dick; this silly squabbling over playwright Harry.

There is no soberness, no sense in it all.