“I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. ” 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. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. “I thought much of it amazingly beautiful. This was what he missed. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. Sanguine they were not. She is in the hall now. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. She stepped into his arms.
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