“It is no good playing a game. 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. Everything was going to hell. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. He was dressed with the utmost care, and he set his feet upon the broad walk as though the action were in some way a condescension. ‘You wouldn’t know one end of a pistol from the other. He was speechless. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers.
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