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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. The Master of the Mint was accompanied by another gentleman almost as portly as himself, and quite as deliberate in his movements. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. ‘Poor things. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. I may as well think. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. ’ ‘What son?’ asked Roding.
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