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‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. 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 cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. It was a habit she had taken from Remenham House, but could not wear because of the colour which must draw attention. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her.

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