Colonel Munro laid his hand beseechingly upon his arm.
"Come home, Heriot! You'll be devilish sorry for this to-morrow, as it is; and if you dance any more, by Gad, you may kill yourself! My dear fellow, think of your age."
Heriot received this objection with a cheerful laugh.
"You're not going yourself, surely?" he inquired.
"I am."
Mr. Walkingshaw looked at him anxiously.
"I say, you do look tired, Charlie. How's that?"
"I am sixty-three," replied the Colonel, with an instinctive lowering of his voice. He never stated his age if he could help it.
Mr. Walkingshaw continued to gaze at him oddly.
"I had forgotten how one feels at that time of life," he said musingly, "quite forgotten. Poor old Charlie; I oughtn't to have kept you up so late. I'd have felt like that at sixty-three myself. Well, my dear fellow, I'm glad we were able to have this night together before it became too late. It has made me feel quite old again to see you."