"The gentleman under the table," she answered. Admire her as much as you choose—at a distance. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. Then, naturally, I went on talking. She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. That “entirely English” comment was said just to provoke me. ‘Mademoiselle.
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