Ted blurted out, "You said in your letter that you're a doddering old man."
"Ten years older than Methuselah." John Wilson laughed and the sound was good to hear. "I'm glad to know you, Ted."
"And I you. Shall we get out to the house?"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to grab a bite to eat. The dining car on the Limited was crowded and I couldn't get in."
"The cafes will be crowded and we'll have to wait. I'll fix you something, if you want to come along now."
"Fine!"
Ted picked up the suitcase, escorted John Wilson to the pickup and put the luggage in the rear. About to open the door for his guest, he was forestalled when John Wilson opened it himself and climbed in. Ted settled in the driver's seat.
"Mind if I smoke?" John Wilson asked.
"Not at all."
He lighted a pipe and sat puffing on it while Ted steered expertly through Lorton's hunting season traffic. A happy warmth enveloped him. He liked most people, but very few times in his life had he been drawn so close to one on such short acquaintance. John Wilson was probably ten years older than Al, but far from doddering. He was that rare person whom age has made mellow rather than caustic.