A Victorian house on a stately street, Formal, ornate. The bell breaks the silence. Would a gift have been wise--something to eat? When to shift from pleasantries to science? A ticking clock, long rows of serious books, China, polished wood, a distant dog barks. Pay attention, this might have some value. It's rude to seek help without taking advice. Now say what you've really come for, shall you? Then: time to go? Did our talking suffice? Not for years now have I been the visitor. This is my parlor and I am the grey one, The host, the ear, the kindly inquisitor. How can it be that it's my turn to play one?
See also: Midlife.