[_Krakau pours the wine. All watch with eager eyes. The sun now shines full in the room._] KRAKAU. Hadn't we better push the tables together. HELMS [_petulantly_]. No. It's my birthday. And we can do very well without your table. HAMMER. There'd be more room with both tables. BUFFE. We can't all sit around one table. HELMS. All right--push them together. [_They do so._] JOHNSTON. We must fix our tables this way, too, Peter. HANSEN. All right. BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine. [_Bolling stands up. They move his chair to the table. He sits again._] HANSEN. Why are you so quiet, Bolling? BOLLING. Everything there is to say has been said. JOHNSTON. He's a smart man. [_Nods admiringly._] HANSEN. Ha, ha, ha! BOLLING [_suddenly to Krakau_]. What's that you are pouring? KRAKAU. Sherry. BOLLING [_angrily_]. I can't stand port wine. KRAKAU. Yes, but this is sherry. BOLLING. Port wine is poison. HAMMER. But this is sherry. BOLLING. Port wine is poison. BUFFE. Yes, Bolling; but this is sherry; it won't hurt you. BOLLING. Poison--port wine is. JOHNSTON [_raising his glass._] Many happy returns! HAMMER. Many future birthdays! HANSEN. Happy ones! BUFFE. Bolling, we are drinking to Helms. BOLLING. It isn't port wine, is it? BUFFE. No, indeed,--sherry. BOLLING. I da'sn't drink port. BUFFE. It's a toast to Helms. BOLLING. Why? BUFFE. He's eighty years old to-day. BOLLING. I am ninety-two. That's nothing to be glad about. [_All except Bolling raise their glasses. They utter cheery exclamations and drink._] HELMS. Thanks; thank you! BOLLING [_raising his glass_]. Congratulations, Helms. I hope you never get as old as me. HAMMER [_angrily_]. That's no way to talk, Bolling. HANSEN. He's spoiling the whole party. BUFFE [_apologetically_]. Bolling's tired of living. JOHNSTON. You're joking. BUFFE. No; really he is. He wants to die. JOHNSTON. Nonsense! How can any one _want_ to die? It's against human nature. KRAKAU [_who has taken cigars from the cupboard_]. Who wants to smoke? HANSEN [_with delight._] Cigars too! [_Krakau passes the cigars. Hansen, Hammer and Johnston each take one. The sun now shines on the table and men._] BUFFE. The sun is as red as wine. HANSEN [_with a sigh_]. Autumn is coming. HANSEN. We've had Autumn weather for two weeks past. HELMS. Unseasonable weather! I hate it. [_During the entire scene he has been ill at ease, casting frequent apprehensive glances at Krakau, who avoids his gaze._] BUFFE. It isn't like it used to be. HAMMER. No. When the calendar said _Summer_ we _had_ Summer. BOLLING [_apropos of nothing_]. I am ninety-two. BUFFE [_explaining apologetically_]. He always says that. It's on his mind. KRAKAU. I hear that the nurse downstairs is engaged to be married. HANSEN. Yes, with the doctor. JOHNSTON. The hospital doctor? KRAKAU. Yes; he's a sick man himself. HAMMER. Then it's a good thing she's a nurse.