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. “That’s exhilarating,” said Ann Veronica. Directly in range stood the strange young man, although he was at the far side of the loft. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. As her belly swelled, so did he. Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none the better for anticipating its miseries to-day. .
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