“Yes,” she said, very faintly. “If you cannot listen to me now it must remain undelivered. ” 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. Let’s have an advance round of applause for our concertmaster, 249 Lucy Albert!” Lucy was horrified. ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command.
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