Again Irene stopped.

“Would you like some Gluck?  He used to write his music in a sunlit garden, with a bottle of Rhine wine beside him.”

“Ah! yes.  Let’s have ‘Orfeo.’” Round about him now were fields of gold and silver flowers, white forms swaying in the sunlight, bright birds flying to and fro.  All was summer.  Lingering waves of sweetness and regret flooded his soul.  Some cigar ash dropped, and taking out a silk handkerchief to brush it off, he inhaled a mingled scent as of snuff and eau de Cologne.  ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘Indian summer—­that’s all!’ and he said:  “You haven’t played me ‘Che faro.’”

She did not answer; did not move.  He was conscious of something—­some strange upset.  Suddenly he saw her rise and turn away, and a pang of remorse shot through him.  What a clumsy chap!  Like Orpheus, she of course—­she too was looking for her lost one in the hall of memory!  And disturbed to the heart, he got up from his chair.  She had gone to the great window at the far end.  Gingerly he followed.  Her hands were folded over her breast; he could just see her cheek, very white.  And, quite emotionalized, he said: 

“There, there, my love!” The words had escaped him mechanically, for they were those he used to Holly when she had a pain, but their effect was instantaneously distressing.  She raised her arms, covered her face with them, and wept.

Old Jolyon stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age.  The passionate shame she seemed feeling at her abandonment, so unlike the control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had never before broken down in the presence of another being.

“There, there—­there, there!” he murmured, and putting his hand out reverently, touched her.  She turned, and leaned the arms which covered her face against him.  Old Jolyon stood very still, keeping one thin hand on her shoulder.  Let her cry her heart out—­it would do her good.

And the dog Balthasar, puzzled, sat down on his stern to examine them.

The window was still open, the curtains had not been drawn, the last of daylight from without mingled with faint intrusion from the lamp within; there was a scent of new-mown grass.  With the wisdom of a long life old Jolyon did not speak.  Even grief sobbed itself out in time; only Time was good for sorrow—­Time who saw the passing of each mood, each emotion in turn; Time the layer-to-rest.  There came into his mind the words:  ’As panteth the hart after cooling streams’—­but they were of no use to him.  Then, conscious of a scent of violets, he knew she was drying her eyes.  He put his chin forward, pressed his moustache against her forehead, and felt her shake with a quivering of her whole body, as of a tree which shakes itself free of raindrops.  She put his hand to her lips, as if saying:  “All over now!  Forgive me!”

The kiss filled him with a strange comfort; he led her back to where she had been so upset.  And the dog Balthasar, following, laid the bone of one of the cutlets they had eaten at their feet.