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. “You need not be alarmed,” he said. He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. Public school. You know you do, Annabel.
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