“Well, I don’t think you told him as much as that, did you?” Lady Lescelles asked. 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. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. It was perfectly logical. —'How so?' says I. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. Unbelievable the pranks that she pulled—-you should have told me! I told her to leave you 157 the hell alone or she would be dealing with me next, I dropped a hint about telling her parents about her in detail.
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