"Don't disturb yourself," continued the other, nowise disconcerted by the rebuke. She stood on the mat instead, and looked down on him. 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. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. "I don't exactly know the rights of that affair," rejoined Griffin, with some curiosity. When you reach San Francisco, you can buy something more appropriate.
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