It was midnight.

Mr.Pole had appeased his imagination with a chop, and was trying to revive the memory of his old after-theatre night carouses by listening to a song which Emilia sang to him, while he sipped at a smoking mixture, and beat time on the table, rejoiced that he was warm from head to foot at last.
"That's a pretty song, my dear," he said.

"A very pretty song.

It does for an old fellow; and so did my supper: light and wholesome.

I'm an old fellow; I ought to know I've got a grown-up son and grown-up daughters.
I shall be a grandpa, soon, I dare say.