When the door was opened to him his sensations were regulated by the scent which came--that perfume--from away back in the past, bringing muffled remembrance: fragrance of a drawing-room he used to enter, of a house he used to own--perfume of dried rose-leaves and honey! "Say, Mr.Forsyte," he said, "your mistress will see me, I know." He had thought this out; she would think it was Jolyon! When the maid was gone and he was alone in the tiny hall, where the light was dim from one pearly-shaded sconce, and walls, carpet, everything was silvery, making the walled-in space all ghostly, he could only think ridiculously: 'Shall I go in with my overcoat on, or take it off ?' The music ceased; the maid said from the doorway: "Will you walk in, sir ?" Soames walked in.

He noted mechanically that all was still silvery, and that the upright piano was of satinwood.

She had risen and stood recoiled against it; her hand, placed on the keys as if groping for support, had struck a sudden discord, held for a moment, and released.
The light from the shaded piano-candle fell on her neck, leaving her face rather in shadow.

She was in a black evening dress, with a sort of mantilla over her shoulders--he did not remember ever having seen her in black, and the thought passed through him: 'She dresses even when she's alone.' "You!" he heard her whisper.
Many times Soames had rehearsed this scene in fancy.

Rehearsal served him not at all.