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. Not even for Ruth could he do such a beastly thing. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. Her father—man of rock—had never needed her, whereas Hoddy, even if he did not love her, would always be needing her. She had started wearing the dresses he bought for her, the white and blue shift he said, “brings out the color in your eyes”.
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