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148 “Sure. ” “But how?” “I poured him out some port wine, and I said—let me see—oh, ‘You are going to be a grandfather!’” “Yes. \"So did I. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. 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. By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist. I could resist the tempter now, I am strong in health,—in mind. How long do you think it will take him to put two and two together?’ ‘Eh bien, then if he will try to harm me, I will kill him.
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