We have both tried hard to develop it—you and I —and we have failed. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Still no sound. 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.
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