“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?”

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.”