” 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. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. And the fences are down for good. There is a new life, different from the old life of dependence, possible. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. I went at last when I had barely a shilling in my purse to a dramatic agent. His exploits and escapes are in every body's mouth. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids.
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