Chanler smiled. But it was not the likable, indolent, boyish smile of old which admitted:
“Quite so. Came as a shock to hear that I was planning to be something besides a loafer spending the money my governor made. I knew it would. You never expected anything like this of me, Gardy?”
“No, I can’t say that I did.”
“Neither did I. Never dreamed of it until three months ago, and then—then I discovered that I had to do—come in, Simmons,” he interrupted himself as the valet knocked.
While he was swallowing his little drink of absinth I studied him more closely.
There had always been something of the young Greek god about George Chanler, an indolent, likable, self-satisfied young god with a long, elegant body and a small curl-wrapped head. Now I saw how he had changed. The fine body and head had grown flabby from too much self-indulgence and too little use. There was a new look about the lazy eyes which hinted at a worry, the sort of worry which troubles a man awake or sleeping. Something had happened to George Chanler, something that had shaken him out of the armor of indolent self-sufficiency which Chanler money had grown around him. The boyish lines about his mouth were gone. It was not a likable face now; it was cynical, almost brutal.
“That’s all, Simmons,” he said, allowing Simmons to take the empty glass from his hand. “What was I saying, Gardy, when I stopped?”
“That you discovered that you had to do——”
“Oh, yes.” He paused a while. “Didn’t you wonder why I was doing this sort of thing when you got my wire, Gardy?”
“Naturally, I did.”