"I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. "Vot are you?" "Practising patience," growled Abraham. She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth.
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