Had any doubting Thomas,
however, walked beside him on his way up Broadway to his rooms on
Fifteenth Street, and had the quick, almost boyish lift of Peter's
heels not entirely convinced the unbeliever of Peter's youth, all
questions would have been at once disposed of had the cheery bank
teller invited him into his apartment up three flights of stairs
over the tailor's shop--and he would have invited him had he been
his friend--and then and there forced him into an easy chair near
the open wood fire, with some such remark as: "Down, you rascal,
and sit close up where I can get my hands on you!" No--there was
no trace of old age about Peter.
He was ready now--hatted, coated and gloved--not a hint of the
ostrich egg or shaggy shutters visible, but a well-preserved
bachelor of forty or forty-five; strictly in the mode and of the
mode, looking more like some stray diplomat caught in the wiles of
the Street, or some retired magnate, than a modest bank clerk on
three thousand a year. The next instant he was tripping down the
granite steps between the rusty iron railings--on his toes most of
the way; the same cheery spring in his heels, slapping his thin,
shapely legs with his tightly rolled umbrella, adjusting his hat
at the proper angle so that the well-trimmed side whiskers--the
veriest little dabs of whiskers hardly an inch long--would show as
well as the fringes of his grey hair.
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