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.

"Not there," said Bracy with a laugh. "You forget! That's not
Johnnyboy's gait just now. Come here." He was descending a few steps
that led to a humble cake-shop. As we entered I noticed a young fellow
standing before the plain wooden counter with a cake of gingerbread in
one hand and a glass of milk in the other. His profile was before me;
I at once recognized the long lashes. But the happy, boyish, careless
laugh that greeted Bracy, as he presented me, was a revelation.

Yet he was pleased to remember me. And then--it may have been
embarrassment that led me to such tactlessness, but as I glanced at him