I don’t mind it. 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. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. Even unbelieving biological demonstrators must respect decorum; and besides, you see—you were a student. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened.
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