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. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. Remember that he’s not at all a bad sort, and to speak frankly, he’s your salvation. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person.
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