That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. There was just time for the girl to raise her arm to chest height and draw it back before Roding seized her. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. 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.
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