“It’s a pity he’s gone out of Wall Street,” continued his companion. “The younger fry feel now something like a flock of sheep that has lost its bell-wether.”
“They straggle—eh?” returned his portly friend with an increase of his smile that was not altogether pleasant. “So Sylvester has left Wall Street?”
“He closed his last enterprise two weeks before accepting the Presidency of the Madison Bank. Stuyvesant is down on speculation, and well—It looks better you know; the Madison Bank is an old institution, and Sylvester is ambitious. There’ll be no reckless handling of funds there.”
“No!” What was there in that no that made the other look up? “I’m not acquainted with Sylvester myself. Has he much family?”
“A wife—there she is, that handsome woman talking with Ditman,—and a daughter, niece or somebody who just now is setting all our young scapegraces by the ears. You can see her if you just crane your neck a little.”
“Humph, ha, very pretty, very pretty. How much do you suppose Mrs. Sylvester is worth as she stands, diamonds you know, and all that?”
“Well I should say some where near ten thousand; that sprig in her hair cost a clean five.”
“So, so. They live in a handsome house I suppose?”
“A regular palace, corner of Fifth Avenue and ——”
“All his?”