” 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. You are to come home. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before. Much to my amazement, as soon as I was in her presence I forgot about my magic and thought only of love.
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