of conformity to the sense of property--wounding too grievously
the deepest thing in him--a love of beauty which could give him, even
now, a flutter of the heart, thinking of his evening in the society of a
pretty woman. And he went downstairs, through the swinging doors, to the
back regions. There, in the wine-cellar, was a hock worth at least two
pounds a bottle, a Steinberg Cabinet, better than any Johannisberg that
ever went down throat; a wine of perfect bouquet, sweet as a
nectarine--nectar indeed! He got a bottle out, handling it like a baby,
and holding it level to the light, to look. Enshrined in its coat of
dust, that mellow coloured, slender-necked bottle gave him deep pleasure.
Three years to settle down again since the move from Town--ought to be in
prime condition! Thirty-five years ago he had bought it--thank God he had
kept his palate, and earned the right to drink it. She would appreciate
this; not a spice of acidity in a dozen. He wiped the bottle, drew the
cork with his own hands, put his nose down, inhaled its perfume, and went
back to the music room.

Irene was standing by the piano; she had taken off her hat and a lace
scarf she had been wearing, so that her gold-coloured hair was visible,
and the pallor of her neck. In her grey frock she made a pretty picture
for old Jolyon, against the rosewood of the piano.

He gave her his arm, and solemnly they went. The room, which had been
designed to enable twenty-four people to dine in comfort, held now but a
little round table. In his present solitude the big dining-table
oppressed old Jolyon; he had caused it to be removed till his son came
back. Here in the company of two really good copies of Raphael Madonnas
he was wont to dine alone. It was the only disconsolate hour of his day,
this summer weather. He had never been a large eater, like that great
chap Swithin, or Sylvanus Heythorp, or Anthony Thornworthy, those cronies
of past times; and to dine alone, overlooked by the Madonnas, was to him
but a sorrowful occupation, which he got through quickly, that he might
come to the more spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar. But this
evening was a different matter! His eyes twinkled at her across the
little table and he spoke of Italy and Switzerland, telling her stories
of his travels there, and other experiences which he could no longer
recount to his son and grand-daughter because they knew them. This fresh
audience was precious to h