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. Hastily, he reached for the door. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. Horrible details recurred to her. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. ’ ‘Oh, a ruin,’ exclaimed Mrs Sindlesham, throwing up a hand. Folks don’t like ’em.
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