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I shall know what to say to him when he comes. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. ” 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. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square.
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