Its smooth surface soothed her nerves. 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. Only a book detective could dope this out. Nothing ensued. "Your audacity passes belief," cried the latter, as soon as his surprise would allow him utterance. It is not at all comme il faut.
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