” “As you will, dear lover. Every word you utter puzzles me. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. ” 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. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. Michelle looked at their reflections in the wall mirror. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill.
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