” “I can’t be portentous, dear, when you’re about. ” 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. “What has he to do with it?” “He was your sister’s master—her friend. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. “I wonder if I’ve been properly brought up. And as for not knowing me, you abominable little liar, you’re perfectly aware that we met at Remenham House. The wish was vain: and, endeavouring to banish every earthly thought, he addressed himself deeply and sincerely to prayer.
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