” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. He could not tell whether she was English or American. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. I wanted the magic of love. Altogether, it was a hideous and revolting sight. ’ ‘Compel me? You do not know me, monsieur. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around.
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