He was pre-occupied and puzzled, and more than one of his old associates, receiving a distant nod in passing, resentfully concluded that his wealth was beginning to change him.

His brain was so full of statistics, figures, and computations that it whirled dizzily, and once he narrowly escaped being run down by a cable car.

He dined alone at a small French restaurant in one of the side streets.

The waiter marveled at the amount of black coffee the young man consumed and looked hurt when he did not touch the quail and lettuce.
That night the little table in his room at Mrs.Gray's was littered with scraps of pad paper, each covered with an incomprehensible maze of figures.

After dinner he had gone to his own rooms, forgetting that he lived on Fifth Avenue.