What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. ” “Such independence,” he answered quickly, “is a vice. Even our coarseness. “So should you. ” “Wait,” she said. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. ” He made to speak and did not. “Who is there to care and—John. ” 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.
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