\" She waved. ” She stopped, and then suggested: “I wonder—I should love—if it was anything I said. ” 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. Disillusion stands in one doorway of our house and Mockery in the other. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. . . It's all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you'll swing for your carelessness, I'd throw you into the well, too.
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