The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. The two great hotels on their right were still ablaze with lights. 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. He looked at her, hurt. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. After passing Tottenham Court Road, very few houses were to be seen on the right hand, opposite Wardour Street it was open country.
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