I said, ‘It is no use your telling me about this walk and pretend I’ve been told about the ball, because you haven’t. ” 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. “I think,” he said, “that I would fetch any one whom he has asked to see. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. It’s a world of dirt and skin diseases and parasites. A rock gave way to deep water. Yet, stay! There is one thing I wish you to do. ‘Dear me.
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