He admitted them himself, when they had waited a few moments after sounding alarm with the ancient knocker.  Framed in the door, he was a picturesque figure.  His abundant white hair hung straight down over his ears, and curled outward at the ends; his short beard was snowy, but there was healthful ruddiness on his face, and though his figure, tall above the average, stooped a bit, he walked briskly ahead of them into the library, crying delighted welcome over his shoulder.  His meeting with Thelismer Thornton had been almost an embrace.

“And this boosting big chap is Harlan—­my grand-baby, Vard!  Guess you used to see him at ‘The Barracks’ when he was smaller.  Since then he’s been trying to outgrow one of our spruce-trees.”

The ex-Governor gave Harlan his left hand.  The empty sleeve of the right arm was pinned to the shoulder.

“The old Yankee stock doesn’t need a step-ladder to stand on to light the moon, so they used to say.”

He rolled chairs close to each other and urged them to sit, with the anxious hospitality of the old man who has grown to prize the narrowing circle of his intimates.

“Smoke, Thelismer,” he pleaded.  “Stretch out and smoke.  I always like to see you smoke.  You take so much comfort.  I sometimes wish I’d learned to smoke.  Old age gets lonely once in a while.  Perhaps a good cigar might be a consolation.”

“So you do get lonesome sometimes, Vard?” inquired the Duke.

“It’s a lonesome age when you’re eighty, comrade.  You probably find it so yourself.  There are so few of one’s old friends that live to be eighty.”

Then they fell into discourse, eager, wistful reminiscences such as come to the lips of old friends who meet infrequently.  The young man, sitting close in the circle, listened appreciatively.  This courtly old soldier, lawyer, Governor, and kindly gentleman had been to him since boyhood, as he had to the understanding youth of his State, an ideal knight of the old regime.  And so the hours slipped past, and he sat listening.

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.”