Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary finery. 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. The worst was over now. “You think that this is all. I just like you, Mary, and we’ve had a lot of fun. Rhea laughed and lunged for the broadsword that Sebastian had carelessly left lying on the ground. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently.
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