The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that. It was time to leave America. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. They had shared almost seventy five wonderful years there in nearly utter seclusion before it came time to move on.
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