” “I suppose so. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. “Before you do anything else I should advise you to secure those charred fragments of paper from the grate. But I'll not believe it of you. He moaned. ” 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. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. She had no intention whatsoever of spending her life in a convent, but that was not his affair. . . One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. “But I am at singing-pitch. Explain to Sir John our feelings.
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