There was something in Jonathan's manner, as he issued this command, that struck the man as singular, and he afterwards recalled it. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. ” 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. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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