Where were all the women, the pretty women, the house used to be so full of?
Where was that old feeling in the heart as he waited for one of those great singers?
Where that sensation of the intoxication of life and of his own power to enjoy it all?
The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! That fellow Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any voices to sing it.
Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat watching the old scenes acted, a numb feeling at his heart.
From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in its elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak about old Jolyon.

He was as upright--very nearly--as in those old times when he came every night; his sight was as good--almost as good.

But what a feeling of weariness and disillusion! He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even imperfect things--and there had been many imperfect things--he had enjoyed them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young.

But now he was deserted by his power of enjoyment, by his philosophy, and left with this dreadful feeling that it was all done with.

Not even the Prisoners' Chorus, nor Florian's Song, had the power to dispel the gloom of his loneliness.
If Jo were only with him! The boy must be forty by now.