” 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. We mustn’t make it so. He envied her a little. "You have killed him," cried Winifred in alarm. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. “You see,” he said, “from my point of view you’re grown up— you’re as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive.
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