noon
There were three of us : the fat waiter , who from a gray , dust-covered bottle was pouring out the golden-yellow Muscatel into my glass ; then myself , who sat in a nook of the cozy , odd-cornered room and smacked the fragrant wine ; and still another guest , who had taken his place at one of the two open windows , a tumbler of red wine lying before him on the window-sill , in his mouth a long brown , smoke-seasoned meerschaum cigar-holder , out of which he wrapped himself in a cloud of smoke . This man , who had a long gray beard framing a ruddy face tinged bluish in places , was an old retired colonel , whom every one in town knew . He belonged to that colony of the Superannuated who had settled down in this pleasant place to wearily drag out the end of their days . Toward noon they could be seen strolling deliberately in groups of twos or threes down the street , shortly to disappear into the wine-room , where between twelve and one they assembled at the round table to gossip . On the table stood pint bottles of sourish Moselle , over the table floated a thick mist of cigar smoke , and through the mist came voices , peevish , grating , discussing the latest event in the Army Register . The old colonel , too , was a regular patron of the wine-room , but he never came at the hour of general assembly , but later , in the afternoon . He was a man of lonely disposition .