"Since the fall of the House of Sybarite?"
"Yes. I didn't know you were in New York, even."
"Your mother and Mae Alys knew it—but kept it quiet, the same as me," said the little man.
"But—well—what have you been doing, then?"
"Going to and fro like a raging lion—more or less—seeking what I might devour."
"And the devourings have been good, eh? You're high-spirited enough."
"I think," said P. Sybarite quietly—"I may say—though you can't see it—that my present smile would, to a shrewd observer, seem to indicate I'd swallowed a canary-bird ... a nice, fat, golden canary-bird!" he repeated, smacking his lips with unction.
"You talk as if you'd swallowed a dictagraph," said Peter Kenny.
"It's my feeling," sighed P. Sybarite. "But yourself? Let's see; when I saw you last you were the only authentic child pest of your day and generation—six or seven at most. How long have you been out of college?"
"A year—not quite."