Brook stood in the corner of the room by a small cabinet. He poured wine into some glasses and motioned to hand the glasses to Dearborne and Lloyd, who sat on a sofa near her at the window. Lloyd looked out the window at the setting sun. He watched and listened to the people coming out of their homes and heading for their evening fun-spots. They had weathered the fretting indulgences brought to them by the rain and they now behaved no differently than they had for months before the rain.
Brook, with a silent tip of his head to the beloved wife, handed her a glass of her once-favoured wine. She graciously accepted it from him and stared at the glass. Her face exposed an expression of anxiety and fear, afraid to drink, as if the glass of that delicate beverage had been laced with some kind of poison. He gave to Lloyd a glass also, breaking his concentrations of watching the columns of people below, as they headed for the centre of Pomperaque, to their taverns and theatres. The Lord lifted his glass and saluted those close to him, within the room, with a toast to freedom and unity. They echoed him.
Lloyd kept his stare on the street, and Brook was curious as to what interested his guest so much. He looked at Lloyd several times, and every time he just stared out into the street. He seemed somewhat intoxicated, although he only sipped once, at his wine.
Brook understood that Lloyd was only longing for his home in Besten.
He knew that the thoughts of his homeland and his near death, in
Pomperaque, had chilled his mind and made him dopey.
Lord Brook emptied his glass of wine and sighed, the sound of it resonated throughout the room. He spoke, imitating a burly Bestenese accent that grabbed the attention of both his lovely wife and Lloyd.
"Ah! — 'What sweet sustenance we have in our thirst, for the smooth wisp of truth found in a rose'!" said Brook, as he quoted one of Besten's most renown poets. Lloyd glanced away from the window and smile at Brook. Their rapport showed in their eyes and they didn't need to speak. Brook looked at Dearborne and saw that she didn't react to his poetry recital. Instead, she began to develop mannerisms of someone who is disgusted. He thought that she just didn't approve of his jest. Lloyd noticed a strangeness in her, too, but he thought that it wasn't his place to say anything.
"At least you don't quote that Djenaud Smarte, my Lord. You have taste!" Lloyd made ready to make some fun, if the Lord cared to jest, himself — and he did.
"Yes. Moreye was a great poet. I remember that he once jested about Smarte. He said, 'Smarte could only write if intoxicated by the aroma of a peasant's chicken-house, and that's why he lived in one'!" Brook was amused as was Lloyd. He sat up better as not to spill his drink while he laughed. He soon added to Brook's jest by conveying to him a game that he learned in Besten, while he was still young.
"We once played games in Besten. Some Elders told us that these games were very old but our own familiarities could be used to make them humorous, to us. My father, Harvard, taught me this one and I found it funny. The game goes like this. Someone appears at your door and knocks. The one inside asks, 'who is there?', the outsider answers with something and the insider asks again, the outsider's name and 'who?' Then one outside answers in a humorous manner."
To Brook, the explanation of the game, was funny enough for him, because Lloyd began to take on a nature of a lad, Boy's age. Finally, after Lloyd explained to Brook the game, he demonstrated it to him. He told Brook what to say as the insider and the joke commenced. Lloyd rapped on the wood of the chair's arm-rest, that represented the door. He then pointed to Brook.