Colonel Hampton snorted contemptuously. Senile dementia! Well, he must
have been senile and demented, to bring this pair of snakes into his
home, because he felt an obligation to his dead brother's memory. And
he'd willed "Greyrock," and his money, and everything, to Stephen. Only
Myra couldn't wait till he died; she'd Lady-Macbethed her husband into
this insanity accusation.
"... however, I must fully satisfy myself, before I can sign the
commitment," the psychiatrist was saying. "After all, the patient is a
man of advanced age. Seventy-eight, to be exact."
Seventy-eight; almost eighty. Colonel Hampton could hardly realize that
he had been around so long. He had been a little boy, playing soldiers.
He had been a young man, breaking the family tradition of Harvard and
wangling an appointment to West Point. He had been a new second lieutenant
at a little post in Wyoming, in the last dying flicker of the Indian Wars.
He had been a first lieutenant, trying to make soldiers of militiamen and
hoping for orders to Cuba before the Spaniards gave up.
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