You cannot know that." "No," murmured Mr.Dale, "perhaps not, but I can imagine it." When they reached the iron gate of Dale house, they followed the trim path across the lawn to the north side of the house, where it ended in a little walk, three bricks wide, laid end to end, and so damp with perpetual shade, they were slippery with green mould, and had tufts of moss between them.
Mr.Dale's study was in a sort of half basement one went down two steps to reach the doorway, and the windows, set in thick stone walls and almost hidden in a tangle of wistaria, were just above the level of the path.
The two old men entered, Mr.Dale bending his tall white head a little; and while the lawyer unwound a long blue muffler from about his throat, the host lighted a lamp, and, getting down on his knees, blew the dim embers in the rusty grate into a flickering blaze.

Then he pulled a blackened crane from the jamb, and hung on it a dinted brass kettle, so that he might add some hot water to Mr.Denner's gin and sugar, and also make himself a cup of tea.

That done, he took off his overcoat, throwing it across the mahogany arm of the horse-hair sofa, which was piled with books and pamphlets, and whitened here and there with ashes from his silver pipe; then he knotted the cord of his flowered dressing-gown about his waist, spread his red silk handkerchief over his thin locks, and, placing his feet comfortably upon the high fender, was ready for conversation.
Mr.Denner, meanwhile, without waiting for the formality of an invitation, went at once to a small corner closet, and brought out a flat, dark bottle and an old silver cup.

He poured the contents of the bottle into the cup, added some sugar, and lastly, with a sparing hand, the hot water, stirring it round and round with the one teaspoon which they shared between them.
Mr.Dale had produced a battered caddy, and soon the fumes of gin and tea mingled amicably together.
"If I could always have such evenings as this," Mr.Denner thought, sipping the hot gin and water, and crossing his legs comfortably, "I should not have to think of--something different." "Your wife would appreciate what I meant about loneliness," he said, going back to what was uppermost in his mind.

"A house without a mistress at its head, Henry, is--ah--not what it should be." The remark needed no reply; and Mr.Dale leaned back in his leather chair, dreamily watching the blue smoke from his slender pipe drift level for a moment, and then, on an unfelt draught, draw up the chimney.
Mr.Denner, resting his mug on one knee, began to stir the fire gently.
"Yes, Henry," he continued, "I feel it more and more as I grow older.