While I am waiting for my turn to receive our parent's chilly salute, I steal a second glance at our guest.

Yes, he is old certainly.

Despite the youth of his eyes, despite the uprightness, the utter freedom from superfluous flesh--from the ugly shaky bulkiness of age--in his tall and stalwart figure, still he is old--old in the eyes of nineteen--as old as father, perhaps--though in much better preservation--forty-eight or forty-nine; for is not his hair iron-gray, and his heavy mustache, and the thick and silky beard that falls on his broad breast, are they not iron-gray too?
I have dropped my small and unwilling kiss on father's forehead--and said "good-night" in a tone as suppressedly hostile as his own.

Now I may go.

We may all go.