He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. It was evident the lady’s servant knew his mistress, for he had come equipped with a tray upon which reposed a decanter and two glasses. 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. Shortly Ruth and Spurlock took the way home. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing.
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