Letcookdosomethingextra，andtellBeacontohavethelandauandpairathalf-pasttentodriveherbacktoTownto-night。IsMissHollyasleep?”
Themaidthoughtnot。AndoldJolyon，passingdownthegallery，stoleontiptoetowardsthenursery，andopenedthedoorwhosehingeshekeptspeciallyoiledthathemightslipinandoutintheeveningswithoutbeingheard。
ButHollywasasleep，andlaylikeaminiatureMadonna，ofthattypewhichtheoldpainterscouldnottellfromVenus，whentheyhadcompletedher。Herlongdarklashesclungtohercheeks；onherfacewasperfectpeace——herlittlearrangementswereevidentlyallrightagain。AndoldJolyon，inthetwilightoftheroom，stoodadoringher！Itwassocharming，solemn，andloving——thatlittleface。Hehadmorethanhisshareoftheblessedcapacityoflivingagainintheyoung。Theyweretohimhisfuturelife——allofafuturelifethathisfundamentalpagansanityperhapsadmitted。Thereshewaswitheverythingbeforeher，andhisblood——someofit——inhertinyveins。Thereshewas，hislittlecompanion，tobemadeashappyaseverhecouldmakeher，sothatsheknewnothingbutlove。Hisheartswelled，andhewentout，stillingthesoundofhispatent-leatherboots。Inthecorridoraneccentricnotionattackedhim：TothinkthatchildrenshouldcometothatwhichIrenehadtoldhimshewashelping！Womenwhowereall，once，littlethingslikethisonesleepingthere！’Imustgiveheracheque！’hemused；’Can’tbeartothinkofthem！’Theyhadneverbornereflectingon，thosepooroutcasts；woundingtoodeeplythecoreoftruerefinementhiddenunderlayersofconformitytothesenseofproperty——woundingtoogrievouslythedeepestthinginhim——aloveofbeautywhichcouldgivehim，evennow，aflutteroftheheart，thinkingofhiseveninginthesocietyofaprettywoman。Andhewentdownstairs，throughtheswingingdoors，tothebackregions。There，inthewine-cellar，wasahockworthatleasttwopoundsabottle，aSteinbergCabinet，betterthananyJohan-nisbergthateverwentdownthroat；awineofperfectbouquet，sweetasanectarine——nectarindeed！Hegotabottleout，handlingitlikeababy，andholdingitleveltothelight，tolook。Enshrinedinitscoatofdust，thatmellowcoloured，slender——neckedbottlegavehimdeeppleasure。ThreeyearstosettledownagainsincethemovefromTown——oughttobeinprimecondition！Thirty-fiveyearsagohehadboughtit——thankGodhehadkepthispalate，andearnedtherighttodrinkit。Shewouldappreciatethis；notaspiceofacidityinadozen。Hewipedthebottle，drewthecorkwithhisownhands，puthisnosedown，inhaleditsperfume，andwentbacktothemusicroom。
Irenewasstandingbythepiano；shehadtakenoffherhatandalacescarfshehadbeenwearing，sothathergold-colouredhairwasvisible，andthepallorofherneck。InhergreyfrockshemadeaprettypictureforoldJolyon，againsttherosewoodofthepiano。
Hegaveherhisarm，andsolemnlytheywent。Theroom，whichhadbeendesignedtoenabletwenty-fourpeopletodineincomfort，heldnowbutalittleroundtable。Inhispresentsolitudethebigdining-tableoppressedoldJolyon；hehadcausedittoberemovedtillhissoncameback。HereinthecompanyoftworeallygoodcopiesofRaphaelMadonnashewaswonttodinealone。Itwastheonlydisconsolatehourofhisday，thissummerweather。Hehadneverbeenalargeeater，likethatgreatchapSwithin，orSylvanusHeythorp，orAnthonyThornworthy，thosecroniesofpasttimes；andtodinealone，overlookedbytheMadonnas，wastohimbutasorrowfuloccupation，whichhegotthroughquickly，thathemightcometothemorespiritualenjoymentofhiscoffeeandcigar。Butthiseveningwasadifferentmatter！HiseyestwinkledatheracrossthelittletableandhespokeofItalyandSwitzerland，tellingherstoriesofhistravelsthere，andotherexperienceswhichhecouldnolongerrecounttohissonandgrand-daughterbecausetheyknewthem。Thisfreshaudiencewasprecioustohim；
hehadneverbecomeoneofthoseoldmenwhorambleroundandroundthefieldsofreminiscence。Himselfquicklyfatiguedbytheinsensitive，heinstinctivelyavoidedfatiguingothers，andhisnaturalflirtatiousnesstowardsbeautyguardedhimspeciallyinhisrelationswithawoman。Hewouldhavelikedtodrawherout，butthoughshemurmuredandsmiledandseemedtobeenjoyingwhathetoldher，heremainedconsciousofthatmysteriousremotenesswhichconstitutedhalfherfascination。Hecouldnotbearwomenwhothrewtheirshouldersandeyesatyou，andchatteredaway；orhard-
mouthedwomenwholaiddownthelawandknewmorethanyoudid。
Therewasonlyonequalityinawomanthatappealedtohim——charm；
andthequieteritwas，themorehelikedit。Andthisonehadcharm，shadowyasafternoonsunlightonthoseItalianhillsandvalleyshehadloved。Thefeeling，too，thatshewas，asitwere，apart，cloistered，madeherseemnearertohimself，astrangelydesirablecompanion。Whenamanisveryoldandquiteoutoftherunning，helovestofeelsecurefromtherivalriesofyouth，forhewouldstillbefirstintheheartofbeauty。Andhedrankhishock，andwatchedherlips，andfeltnearlyyoung。ButthedogBalthasarlaywatchingherlipstoo，anddespisinginhishearttheinterruptionsoftheirtalk，andthetiltingofthosegreenishglassesfullofagoldenfluidwhichwasdistastefultohim。
Thelightwasjustfailingwhentheywentbackintothemusic-room。
And，cigarinmouth，oldJolyonsaid：”PlaymesomeChopin。”
Bythecigarstheysmoke，andthecomposerstheylove，yeshallknowthetextureofmen’ssouls。OldJolyoncouldnotbear——astrongcigarorWagner’smusic。HelovedBeethovenandMozart，HandelandGluck，andSchumann，and，forsomeoccultreason，theoperasofMeyerbeer；butoflateyearshehadbeenseducedbyChopin，justasinpaintinghehadsuccumbedtoBotticelli。InyieldingtothesetasteshehadbeenconsciousofdivergencefromthestandardoftheGoldenAge。TheirpoetrywasnotthatofMiltonandByronandTennyson；ofRaphaelandTitian；MozartandBeethoven。Itwas，asitwere，behindaveil；theirpoetryhitnooneintheface，butslippeditsfingersundertheribsandturnedandtwisted，andmelteduptheheart。And，nevercertainthatthiswashealthy，hedidnotcarearapsolongashecouldseethepicturesoftheoneorhearthemusicoftheother。
Irenesatdownatthepianoundertheelectriclampfestoonedwithpearl-grey，andoldJolyon，inanarmchair，whencehecouldseeher，crossedhislegsanddrewslowlyathiscigar。Shesatafewmomentswithherhandsonthekeys，evidentlysearchinghermindforwhattogivehim。ThenshebeganandwithinoldJolyontherearoseasorrowfulpleasure，notquitelikeanythingelseintheworld。Hefellslowlyintoatrance，interruptedonlybythemovementsoftakingthecigaroutofhismouthatlongintervals，andreplacingit。Shewasthere，andthehockwithinhim，andthescentoftobacco；butthere，too，wasaworldofsunshinelingeringintomoonlight，andpoolswithstorksuponthem，andbluishtreesabove，glowingwithblursofwine-redroses，andfieldsoflavenderwheremilk-whitecowsweregrazing，andawomanallshadowy，withdarkeyesandawhiteneck，smiled，holdingoutherarms；andthroughairwhichwaslikemusicastardroppedandwascaughtonacow’shorn。Heopenedhiseyes。Beautifulpiece；sheplayedwell——
thetouchofanangel！Andheclosedthemagain。Hefeltmirac-
ulouslysadandhappy，asonedoes，standingunderalime-treeinfullhoneyflower。Notliveone’sownlifeagain，butjuststandthereandbaskinthesmileofawoman’seyes，andenjoythebouquet！Andhejerkedhishand；thedogBalthasarhadreachedupandlickedit。”Beautiful！”Hesaid：”Goon——moreChopin！”
Shebegantoplayagain。Thistimetheresemblancebetweenherand’Chopin’struckhim。Theswayinghehadnoticedinherwalkwasinherplayingtoo，andtheNocturneshehadchosenandthesoftdarknessofhereyes，thelightonherhair，asofmoonlightfromagoldenmoon。Seductive，yes；butnothingofDelilahinherorinthatmusic。Alongbluespiralfromhiscigarascendedanddispersed。’Sowegoout！’hethought。’Nomorebeauty！Nothing?’
AgainIrenestopped。”WouldyoulikesomeGluck?Heusedtowritehismusicinasunlitgarden，withabottleofRhinewinebesidehim。””Ah！；yes。Let’shave’Orfeo。”’Roundabouthimnowwerefieldsofgoldandsilverflowers，whiteformsswayinginthesunlight，brightbirdsflyingtoandfro。Allwassummer。Lingeringwavesofsweetnessandregretfloodedhissoul。Somecigarashdropped，andtakingoutasilkhandkerchieftobrushitoff，heinhaledamingledscentasofsnuffandeaudeCologne。’Ah！’hethought，’Indiansummer——that’sall！’andhesaid：”Youhaven’tplayedme’Chefaro。’”
Shedidnotanswer；didnotmove。Hewasconsciousofsomething——
somestrangeupset。Suddenlyhesawherriseandturnaway，andapangofremorseshotthroughhim。Whataclumsychap！LikeOrpheus，sheofcourse——shetoowaslookingforherlostoneinthehallofmemory！Anddisturbedtotheheart，hegotupfromhischair。Shehadgonetothegreatwindowatthefarend。Gingerlyhefollowed。Herhandswerefoldedoverherbreast；hecouldjustseehercheek，verywhite。And，quiteemotionalized，hesaid：”There，there，mylove！”Thewordshadescapedhimmechanically，fortheywerethoseheusedtoHollywhenshehadapain，buttheireffectwasinstantaneouslydistressing。Sheraisedherarms，coveredherfacewiththem，andwept。
OldJolyonstoodgazingatherwitheyesverydeepfromage。Thepassionateshamesheseemedfeelingatherabandonment，sounlikethecontrolandquietudeofherwholepresencewasasifshehadneverbeforebrokendowninthepresenceofanotherbeing。”There，there——there，there！”hemurmured，andputtinghishandoutreverently，touchedher。Sheturned，andleanedthearmswhichcoveredherfaceagainsthim。OldJolyonstoodverystill，keepingonethinhandonhershoulder。Lethercryherheartout——itwoulddohergood。
AndthedogBalthasar，puzzled，satdownonhissterntoexaminethem。
Thewindowwasstillopen，thecurtainshadnotbeendrawn，thelastofdaylightfromwithoutmingledwithfaintintrusionfromthelampwithin；therewasascentofnew-mowngrass。WiththewisdomofalonglifeoldJolyondidnotspeak。Evengriefsobbeditselfoutintime；onlyTimewasgoodforsorrow——Timewhosawthepassingofeachmood，eachemotioninturn；Timethelayer-to-rest。
Therecameintohismindthewords：’Aspanteththehartaftercoolingstreams’——buttheywereofnousetohim。Then，consciousofascentofviolets，heknewshewasdryinghereyes。Heputhischinforward，pressedhismoustacheagainstherforehead，andfelthershakewithaquiveringofherwholebody，asofatreewhichshakesitselffreeofraindrops。Sheputhishandtoherlips，asifsaying：”Allovernow！Forgiveme！”
Thekissfilledhimwithastrangecomfort；heledherbacktowhereshehadbeensoupset。AndthedogBalthasar，following，laidtheboneofoneofthecutletstheyhadeatenattheirfeet。
Anxioustoobliteratethememoryofthatemotion，hecouldthinkofnothingbetterthanchina；andmovingwithherslowlyfromcabinettocabinet，hekepttakingupbitsofDresdenandLowestoftandChelsea，turningthemroundandroundwithhisthin，veinedhands，whoseskin，faintlyfreckled，hadsuchanagedlook。”IboughtthisatJobson’s，”hewouldsay；”costmethirtypounds。
It’sveryold。Thatdogleaveshisbonesallovertheplace。Thisold’ship-bowl’Ipickedupatthesalewhenthatpreciousrip，theMarquis，cametogrief。Butyoudon’tremember。Here’sanicepieceofChelsea。Now，whatwouldyousaythiswas?”Andhewascomforted，feelingthat，withhertaste，shewastakingarealinterestinthesethings；for，afterall，nothingbettercomposesthenervesthanadoubtfulpieceofchina。
Whenthecrunchofthecarriagewheelswasheardatlast，hesaid”Youmustcomeagain；youmustcometolunch，thenIcanshowyouthesebydaylight，andmylittlesweet——she’sadearlittlething。