At his home one evening, seated at the piano, no one else being present at the moment, he leaned over and kissed her.
There was a cold, snowy street visible through the interstices of the hangings of the windows, and gas-lamps flickering outside.

He had come in early, and hearing Aileen, he came to where she was seated at the piano.

She was wearing a rough, gray wool cloth dress, ornately banded with fringed Oriental embroidery in blue and burnt-orange, and her beauty was further enhanced by a gray hat planned to match her dress, with a plume of shaded orange and blue.

On her fingers were four or five rings, far too many--an opal, an emerald, a ruby, and a diamond--flashing visibly as she played.
She knew it was he, without turning.

He came beside her, and she looked up smiling, the reverie evoked by Schubert partly vanishing--or melting into another mood.