Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. “You are an impostor. ” 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 had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. I wanted to have something to give up.
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