” 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. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. ‘I went to see him because I thought he ought to know about you, having already been imposed upon by our friend Gosse. ” She glanced out of the window, and the distant trees were a froth of hard spring green and almond blossom. But I waited in vain.
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