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 inprime condition! Thirty-five years ago he had bought it — thank God he had kept his palate, and earned the right to drinkit. She would appreciate this; not a spice of acidity in a dozen. He wiped the bottle, drew the cork with his own hands, puthis 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 hergold-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 incomfort, held now but a little round table. In his present solitude the big dining-table oppressed old Jolyon; he had causedit to be removed till his son came back. Here in the company of two really good copies of Raphael Madonnas he was wont todine alone. It was the only disconsolate hour of his day, this summer weather. He had never been a large eater, like thatgreat chap Swithin, or Sylvanus Heythorp, or Anthony Thornworthy, those cronies of past times; and to dine alone, overlookedby the Madonnas, was to him but a sorrowful occupation, which he got through quickly, that he might come to the morespiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar. But this evening was a different matter! His eyes twinkled at her across thelittle table and he spoke of Italy and Switzerland, telling her stories of his travels there, and other experiences which hecould no longer recount to his son and grand-daughter because they knew them. This fresh audience was precious to him; he