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. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. Half the rooms empty. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore. ” Pause. ” Her eyes were lit with humour. You are always doing something for nothing, and that is why I love you.
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