” 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. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. " "That's well!" cried Jack. C. ‘I do not know if even I can do anything now. ‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. Her anger died and she eyed him.
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