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 and Marvel rose too. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. ’ ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but I think as how you ought to go back to London,’ Jack ventured. We’ll go to the shops.
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