” “Did I?” she said. You need fear no interruption from him, or any of his myrmidons. They both listened intently. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. . ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. 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. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. .
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