Dear me! Times aren't what they were.
Why! you and your brother, and that auctioneer--Mr.Traquair, and Mr.
Nicholas Treffry--you used to have six or seven stalls here regular every season.

And how are you, sir?
We don't get younger!" The colour in old Jolyon's eyes deepened; he paid his guinea.

They had not forgotten him.

He marched in, to the sounds of the overture, like an old war-horse to battle.
Folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves in the old way, and took up his glasses for a long look round the house.
Dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed his eyes on the curtain.

More poignantly than ever he felt that it was all over and done with him.