” 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. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning.
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