The calm night outside was breathlessly still, except for the drone of
insects at the screens, attracted by the glow of the library lamp. A
steeple clock clanged its ten sonorous strokes, and still the old men
chatted on, and the Duke had not hinted at his errand.
The General suddenly remembered that he had in the cellar some home-made
wine, and he asked the young man to come with him, as lamp-bearer.
"The good wife would have thought of that little touch of hospitality
long ago, my son," he said, as they walked down the stairs, "but a
widower's house with grouchy hired help makes old age still more
lonely."
On their return they found the Duke, feet extended, head tipped back,
eyes on the ceiling. He was deep in thought, and told Harlan to place
his glass on the chair's arm.
"Varden," he said, "eighty isn't old, not for a man like you; and it
shouldn't be lonely, that age. I'm still older, and I propose to wear
out instead of rust out."
"I don't feel rusty, exactly," returned the General, smiling into his
glass.
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