Philip was surprised, and glanced at him suspiciously. His habits were
extremely regular; why had he had no dinner?

Meanwhile his father led the way into the study, muttering below his
breath--

"One more chance--his last chance."

A wood fire was burning brightly on the hearth, for the evening was
chilly, and some sherry and glasses stood upon the table.

"Take a glass of wine, Philip; I am going to have one; it is a good
thing to begin a conversation on. What says the Psalmist: 'Wine that
maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make him a cheerful
countenance'--a cheerful countenance! Ho, ho! my old limbs are tired;
I am going to sit down--going to sit down."

He seated himself in a well-worn leather arm-chair by the side of the
fire so that his back was towards the dying daylight. But the
brightness of the flames threw the clear-cut features into strong
relief against the gloom, and by it Philip could see that the withered
cheeks were flushed. Somehow the whole strongly defined scene made him
feel uncanny and restless.

"Cold for the first of May, isn't it, lad? The world is very cold at
eighty-two. Eighty-two, a great age, yet it seems but the other day
that I used to sit in this very chair and dandle you upon my knee, and
make this repeater strike for you. And yet that is twenty years since,
and I have lived through four twenties and two years. A great age, a
cold world!"