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. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. The thought had not even occurred to him. He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. " "On no account," rejoined Wood peremptorily.
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