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. Our quarrel's quite over. But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner. ‘Oh, peste. One little minute with soap and water, voilà tout.
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