Well,
tell me what you're doing."
Herkimer relented before the familiar rush of enthusiasm and questions,
and the conversation began on a natural footing. He looked at Rantoul,
aware of the social change that had taken place in him. The old
aggressiveness, the look of the wolf, had gone; about him was an
enthusiastic urbanity. He seemed clean cut, virile, overflowing with
vitality, only it was a different vitality, the snap and decision of a
man-of-affairs, not the untamed outrush of the artist.
They had spoken scarcely a short five minutes when a knock came on the
door and a footman's voice said:
"Mrs. Rantoul wishes you not to be late for dinner, sir."
"Very well, very well," said Rantoul, with a little impatience. "I
always forget the time. Jove! it's good to see you again; you'll give us
a week at least. Meet you downstairs."
When Herkimer had dressed and descended, his host and hostess were still
up-stairs. He moved through the rooms, curiously noting the contents of
the walls. There were several paintings of value, a series of drawings
by Boucher, a replica or two of his own work; but he sought without
success for something from the brush of Clyde Rantoul.
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