Yes, it was good.

M.
Dubois had caught the peculiar De Peyster quality.

One looked at it and instinctively thought of generations processioning back into a beginningless past.

"In 1148 Archambaud de Paster" ...
Toward five o'clock she rose and, a stately figure in lavender dressing-gown, strolled through the velvet hush of the great darkened house: over foot-flattering rugs, through silken hangings that rustled discreet homage at her passing, by dark tapestries lit with threads of gold, among shadowy bronzes and family portraits and pier-glasses and glinting cut-glass candlesticks and chandeliers.

So exaltative yet so soothing, this opulent silence, this spacious solitude! And for an almost perfect hour she sat in her rear drawing-room, lightly, ever so cautiously, touching bits of Grieg and Tschaikowsky out of her Steinway Grand--just dim whispers of music that did not breathe beyond the door.