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；