The old Captain
apparently watched him with profound satisfaction. Presently, after the
fashion of the senile, he began endless and minute instructions as to
how the lamp should be cleaned.
"Take the wire in your left hand, Peter,--that's right,--now hold the
tip a little closer to the light--no, place the mantels on the right
side--that's the way I do it. System...." the old man's monologue ran on
and on, and became a murmur in Peter's ears. It was rather soothing than
otherwise. Now and then it held tremulous vibrations that might have
been from age or that might have been from some deep satisfaction
mounting even to joy. But to Peter that seemed hardly probable. No doubt
it was senility. The Captain was a tottery old man, past the age for any
fundamental joy.
Night had fallen now, and a darkness, musky with autumn weeds, hemmed in
the sphere of yellow light on the old piazza. A black-and-white cat
materialized out of the gloom, purring, and arching against a pillar.
The whole place was filled with a sense of endless leisure. The old man,
the cat, the perfume of the weeds, soothed in Peter even the rawness of
his hurt at Cissie.
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