Melusine could not wish either to know how their kindness served only to emphasise the lack in her life ensuing from Gerald’s continued absence. 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. We simply can’t get away. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. She turned back into the hall. There’s hardly a night she doesn’t sneak out of the house.
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