It brought the city's old plague, though not with such fearful presence as in years past. Still the name and the dread of it were abroad, and enough of its power to justify them. Many that could, ran away from the city; and business, if it was not absolutely checked, moved sluggishly. There was much less than usual done.
There was little in Winthrop's line, certainly. Yet in the days of vacant courts and laid-by court business, the tenant of Mr. Inchbald's attic went out and came in as often as formerly. What he did with his time was best known to himself.
"I wonder how he does, now, all alone," said Mrs. Nettley to her brother.
"I've a notion he isn't so much of the time alone," said Mr. Inchbald. "He's not at home any more than he used to be, nor so much. I hear him going up or down the stairs — night and day."
"Surely there are no courts now?" said Mrs. Nettley.
"Never are in August — and especially not now, of course."
"I'm afraid he's lonesome, poor fellow!"
"Never saw a fellow look less like it," said Mr. Inchbald. "He's a strong man, he is, in his heart and mind. I should expect to see one of the pyramids of Egypt come down as soon as either of 'em. Lonesome? I never saw him look lonesome."
"He has a trick of not shewing what he feels then," said his sister. "I've seen him times when I know he felt lonesome, — though as you say, I can't say he shewed it. He's a strong build of a man, too, George."
"Like body, like mind," said her brother. "Yes. I like to see a man all of a piece. But his brother has a finer figure."