” 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. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. ” His arms were around her. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. She had told him, point blank, that since the Church had neither annulled the first marriage nor sanctified the second one, she was not his wife. “He fell over at my feet,” she continued. Through a blur of tears Ruth followed the rocking light until it vanished. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat.
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