‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. Deep verandas ran around the bungalows, with bamboo drops which were always down in the daytime, fending off the treacherous sunshine. 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. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. ” The man hesitated. She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing.
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