"I thought I'd know if Brooklyn lost one," shrugs Steve as he reaches for a paper towel. He's half-done drying his hands when he finds himself going over the fresh image of the man's attire in his mind's eye — crisp, clean, and classic, or what some might call old-fashioned. He stops abruptly and turns back to the man, making an effort not to look as hopeful as he is at the prospect of finally meeting someone else here from around his own time. There is Sybil, true, but while she may come from a similar time, she was born into a world vastly different from his own. Aristocratic Britain couldn't be more different from Great Depression Brooklyn. "Last you heard, you said?" His brow rose. "Mind if I ask when that was?"