" "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. As he approached the gable of Mrs. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. Little more’n a week. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. “Is that you, Nigel?” she asked.
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