The insect fluttered lightly through the chamber and settled on the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger . `` Come , come , gentlemen ! Come , Madam Wycherly ! '' exclaimed the doctor . `` I really must protest against this riot . '' They stood still and shivered , for it seemed as if gray Time were calling them back from their sunny youth far down into the chill and darksome vale of years . They looked at old Dr. Heidegger , who sat in his carved armchair holding the rose of half a century , which he had rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase . At the motion of his hand the four rioters resumed their seats -- the more readily because their violent exertions had wearied them , youthful though they were . `` My poor Sylvia 's rose ! '' ejaculated Dr. Heidegger , holding it in the light of the sunset clouds . `` It appears to be fading again . '' And so it was . Even while the party were looking at it the flower continued to shrivel up , till it became as dry and fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase . He shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to its petals . `` I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness , '' observed he , pressing the withered rose to his withered lips . While he spoke the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor 's snowy head and fell upon the floor . His guests shivered again . A strange dullness -- whether of the body or spirit they could not tell -- was creeping gradually over them all . They gazed at one another , and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched away a charm and left a deepening furrow where none had been before . Was it an illusion ?
Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded XXXXX so brief a space , and were they now four aged people sitting with their old friend Dr. Heidegger ?
At as because from into on that though to upon