expression was exceedingly grave, but without resentment.

"You are quite right," he said, finally. Heinze and Aiken moved
expectantly forward, anxious to hear him pass sentence upon me. Seeing
this he raised his voice and repeated: "You are quite right in what
you say about the camp. All you say is quite true."

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and, as he continued
speaking with his face averted, it was as though he were talking to
himself.

"We grow careless as we grow older," he said, "One grows less
difficult to please." His tone was that of a man excusing himself to
himself. "The old standards, the old models, pass away and--and
failures, failures come and dull the energy." His voice dropped into a
monotone; he seemed to have forgotten us entirely.

It must have been then that for the first time I saw the wistful look
come into his eyes, and suddenly felt deeply sorry for him and wished
that I might dare to tell him so. I was not sorry for any act or
speech of mine. They had attacked me, and I had only defended myself.
I was not repentant for anything I had said; my sorrow was for what I
read in the General's eyes as he sat staring out into the valley. It
was the saddest and loneliest look that I had ever seen. There was no
bitterness in it, but great sadness and weariness and disappointment,
and above all, loneliness, utter and complete loneliness.

He glanced up and saw me watching him, and for a moment regarded me
curiously, and then, as though I had tried to force my way into his
solitude, turned his eyes quickly away.