Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. 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. ‘That’s a loud one. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. Well, whenever you say, I promise to do away with the mystery. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. .
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