It was a melancholy thought and true.
Smoothly hospitable, the invalid poured brandy for himself and his guest and chatted with an air of courtesy.

Kenny found himself in quieter mood.

Reminiscence crackled in the wood-fire.

Nights in the studio by the embers of a log many a Gaelic tale had glowed and sparkled in his soft, delightful brogue for the ears of men who loved his tales of folk lore and loved the teller.
Ah, Ireland, dark rosaleen of myths and mirth and melancholy.

The thought of it all made him tender and sad.
Well, he would give this lonely man by the fire an hour of unalloyed delight.