The light was just failing when they went back into the music-room.  And, cigar in mouth, old Jolyon said: 

“Play me some Chopin.”

By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the texture of men’s souls.  Old Jolyon could not bear a strong cigar or Wagner’s music.  He loved Beethoven and Mozart, Handel and Gluck, and Schumann, and, for some occult reason, the operas of Meyerbeer; but of late years he had been seduced by Chopin, just as in painting he had succumbed to Botticelli.  In yielding to these tastes he had been conscious of divergence from the standard of the Golden Age.  Their poetry was not that of Milton and Byron and Tennyson; of Raphael and Titian; Mozart and Beethoven.  It was, as it were, behind a veil; their poetry hit no one in the face, but slipped its fingers under the ribs and turned and twisted, and melted up the heart.  And, never certain that this was healthy, he did not care a rap so long as he could see the pictures of the one or hear the music of the other.

Irene sat down at the piano under the electric lamp festooned with pearl-grey, and old Jolyon, in an armchair, whence he could see her, crossed his legs and drew slowly at his cigar.  She sat a few moments with her hands on the keys, evidently searching her mind for what to give him.  Then she began and within old Jolyon there arose a sorrowful pleasure, not quite like anything else in the world.  He fell slowly into a trance, interrupted only by the movements of taking the cigar out of his mouth at long intervals, and replacing it.  She was there, and the hock within him, and the scent of tobacco; but there, too, was a world of sunshine lingering into moonlight, and pools with storks upon them, and bluish trees above, glowing with blurs of wine-red roses, and fields of lavender where milk-white cows were grazing, and a woman all shadowy, with dark eyes and a white neck, smiled, holding out her arms; and through air which was like music a star dropped and was caught on a cow’s horn.  He opened his eyes.  Beautiful piece; she played well—­the touch of an angel!  And he closed them again.  He felt miraculously sad and happy, as one does, standing under a lime-tree in full honey flower.  Not live one’s own life again, but just stand there and bask in the smile of a woman’s eyes, and enjoy the bouquet!  And he jerked his hand; the dog Balthasar had reached up and licked it.

“Beautiful!” He said:  “Go on—­more Chopin!”

She began to play again.  This time the resemblance between her and ‘Chopin’ struck him.  The swaying he had noticed in her walk was in her playing too, and the Nocturne she had chosen and the soft darkness of her eyes, the light on her hair, as of moonlight from a golden moon.  Seductive, yes; but nothing of Delilah in her or in that music.  A long blue spiral from his cigar ascended and dispersed.  ‘So we go out!’ he thought.  ‘No more beauty!  Nothing?’