” 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. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. ‘We may have to,’ Gerald answered thoughtfully, staring at the window to one side. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. No! I do not even know that he cares for me. Gerald grinned. She was finally dead, going to Hell. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. John exited quickly from the side of the stage and returned to where his mother and father sat.
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