” 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 go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. Don’t try to shield anybody or hide anything. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. ‘The so-called Valade is an evil person, and should certainly be got rid of in the manner you describe. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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