Chap­ter XVII intro­duces a night thick with ten­sion, not through grand con­flict but qui­et emo­tion and social com­plex­i­ty. The chap­ter begins with Ivor Lom­bard deliv­er­ing a pas­sion­ate piano per­for­mance that leaves his lis­ten­ers awed. His music ends in a dra­mat­ic flour­ish, prompt­ing Mary’s admi­ra­tion and deep­en­ing his enig­mat­ic appeal. Ivor’s charm is effort­less, weav­ing through his tal­ents and phys­i­cal pres­ence, mak­ing oth­ers bend sub­tly to his rhythm. With­out hes­i­ta­tion, he sug­gests they all move out­side, invit­ing a con­tin­u­a­tion of enchant­ment under the stars. This setting—the shift from struc­tured indoor cul­ture to the mys­tery of the garden—marks the start of sub­tle emo­tion­al shifts. The gar­den becomes a place where unspo­ken desires and qui­et dis­ap­point­ments start to unfold.

As Ivor leads the group—Anne, Mary, Denis, and Jenny—into the open night, the mood soft­ens and stretch­es. Dark­ness wraps around them like a sec­ond pres­ence, with moon­light cast­ing shift­ing shad­ows as they walk. Ivor sings with casu­al allure, his voice thread­ing through the air, mak­ing Anne lean into his pres­ence almost uncon­scious­ly. Denis, caught between admi­ra­tion and resent­ment, trails behind, unable to match Ivor’s nat­ur­al mag­net­ism. The path­way through the yew trees adds an almost the­atri­cal qual­i­ty to the moment, fram­ing it like a silent stage play. Jen­ny, whose obser­va­tion­al silence is her lan­guage, sens­es the emo­tion­al dis­so­nance and qui­et­ly removes her­self from the gath­er­ing. This qui­et depar­ture hints at an emo­tion­al storm just beneath the calm sur­face. Noth­ing is said direct­ly, yet every­thing is felt with clar­i­ty.

The nar­ra­tive piv­ots as Anne takes a small fall, caus­ing Denis to rush to her side. Her injury is light, but the moment sparks in Denis a hope­ful opening—an oppor­tu­ni­ty for con­nec­tion. Gen­tly, he helps her up, mask­ing his nerves with a show of con­cern that bor­ders on affec­tion. Anne, how­ev­er, draws a firm line, insist­ing she’s fine and doesn’t need drama­ti­za­tion. Denis, ever the inward roman­tic, tries again to breach her emo­tion­al space with sin­cer­i­ty. But Anne remains clear: she prefers their rela­tion­ship to stay unbur­dened by expec­ta­tion or forced sen­ti­ment. Her gen­tle rejec­tion isn’t cruel—it is sim­ply hon­est, deliv­ered with calm kind­ness.

Denis’s fan­ta­sy begins to crum­ble. Despite his imag­ined close­ness with Anne, the real­i­ty reveals a chasm between thought and truth. Walk­ing her back to the house, he feels the frag­ile dig­ni­ty of some­one cling­ing to a role they hoped to ful­fill. The moment is qui­et but emo­tion­al­ly loud—Denis, once again, is the out­sider in his own sto­ry. His inter­nal world, rich with long­ing, doesn’t trans­late into exter­nal suc­cess. Mean­while, the night con­tin­ues around them, indif­fer­ent to his small heart­break. The breeze car­ries Ivor’s laugh­ter from a dis­tance, a reminder that some hearts are sim­ply bet­ter attuned to the world’s rhythm.

Back inside, the oth­ers remain immersed in their own amusements—unaware, or per­haps unin­ter­est­ed, in what hap­pened out­side. Mr. Sco­gan and Hen­ry Wim­bush con­tin­ue their evening in calm dis­cus­sion, untrou­bled by youth­ful dra­mas. Jen­ny, hav­ing returned ear­li­er, per­haps sketch­es in silence, her expres­sion unread­able. Denis helps Anne set­tle, doing so with qui­et care that masks his dis­ap­point­ment. The act is noble, though tinged with res­ig­na­tion. Anne thanks him with warmth but no deep­er invi­ta­tion. What Denis imag­ined might grow into some­thing roman­tic ends instead in a reaf­fir­ma­tion of polite bound­aries.

Lat­er, Ivor and Mary return, voic­es soft and faces bright with shared delight. Their walk under the moon­light seems to have passed with­out fric­tion, unlike Denis and Anne’s stum­ble through mis­com­mu­ni­ca­tion. Ivor, thriv­ing in this aes­thet­ic set­ting, is ener­gized by beau­ty and response, while Denis has been dulled by emo­tion­al mis­align­ment. The night ends not with res­o­lu­tion, but with layering—of feel­ings, roles, and qui­et­ly shift­ing rela­tion­ships. The chap­ter clos­es on an image of a ris­ing moon, sym­bol­ic of things half-seen and just out of reach. In the calm of Crome Yellow’s night, what is left unsaid often mat­ters most.

This chap­ter speaks to the uni­ver­sal dis­so­nance between inner hope and out­er real­i­ty. Denis, despite his efforts, finds that roman­tic con­nec­tion can’t be con­jured by prox­im­i­ty or per­for­mance. What he wants is sin­cer­i­ty, but what he gives off is anx­i­ety wrapped in long­ing. Anne’s response is not cru­el; she sim­ply choos­es clar­i­ty over com­plex­i­ty. Mean­while, Ivor embod­ies a light­ness that draws oth­ers with­out effort—a stark con­trast to Denis’s emo­tion­al heav­i­ness. These par­al­lel expe­ri­ences cre­ate a poignant com­men­tary on how peo­ple move through con­nec­tion and rejec­tion. In this way, the chap­ter res­onates beyond its set­ting, tap­ping into the qui­et heart­breaks of many read­ers.

For mod­ern read­ers, Denis’s inter­nal strug­gle offers a famil­iar reflec­tion. Many expe­ri­ence the frus­tra­tion of mis­aligned affec­tion or the dis­ap­point­ment that comes when efforts to impress fall flat. The chap­ter becomes more than a story—it is a mir­ror. It reminds us that being gen­uine doesn’t always guar­an­tee rec­i­p­ro­ca­tion, and that charm and pres­ence often out­pace sin­cer­i­ty in social spaces. But Denis’s actions, ground­ed in care, still have val­ue. Even unre­quit­ed moments can reveal strength and depth. In this way, the sto­ry doesn’t just nar­rate; it affirms that qui­et dig­ni­ty is still worth some­thing.