“It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. 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. “It spreads like wildfire. ‘And take you this sword. As he was about to descend his chains slightly rattled. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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