“And walks to business before eight every morning, and they say even takes down the shutters and sweeps out,” broke in Circe impulsively. “Works like a slave all day, wears out his old clothes, has given up his clubs and amusements, and shuns society.”
“But how about his health?” I asked. “Is he better and stronger?”
“I don't know,” said Circe, “but he LOOKS as beautiful as Endymion.”
At his bank, in Wall Street, Bracy that afternoon confirmed all that Jason had told me of young Sluysdael. “But his temper?” I asked. “You remember his temper—surely.”
“He's as sweet as a lamb, never quarrels, never whines, never alludes to his lost fortune, and is never put out. For a youngster, he's the most popular man in the street. Shall we nip round and see him?”
“By all means.”
“Come. It isn't far.”
A few steps down the crowded street we dived into a den of plate-glass windows, of scraps of paper, of rattling, ticking machines, more voluble and excited than the careworn, abstracted men who leaned over them. But “Johnnyboy”—I started at the familiar name again—was not there. He was at luncheon.
“Let us join him,” I said, as we gained the street again and turned mechanically into Delmonico's.