ou love me.... But why don't you answer. What
are you thinking of?"

"Only of you, dear.... Let me kiss you again," and in the embrace he
forgot for the moment the inquietude her answer had caused him.

"That is my call," she said. "How am I to sing the Liebestod after all
this? How does it begin?"

Ulick sang the opening phrase, and she continued the music for some
bars.

"I hope I shall get through it all right. Then," she said, "we shall go
home together in the brougham."

At that moment a knock was heard, and Merat entered. "Mademoiselle, you
have no time to lose."

The call boy's voice was heard on the stairs, and Evelyn hastened away.
Ulick followed, and the first thing he heard when he got on the stage
was Tristan's death motive. He listened, not so much to the music itself
as to its occult significance regarding Evelyn and himself. And as
Isolde's grief changed from wild lament for sensual delight to a
resigned and noble prayer, the figure of ecstasy broke with a sound as
of wings shaking, and Ulick seemed to witness a soul's transfiguration.
He watched it rising in several ascensions, like a lark's flight. For an
instant it seemed to float in some divine consummation, then, like the
bird, to suddenly quench in the radiance of the sky. The harps wept
farewell over the bodies of the lovers, then all was done, and he stood
at the wings listening to the applause. She came to him at once, as soon
as the curtain was down.

"How did I sing it?"

"As well as ever."

"But you seem sad; what is it?"

"It seemed to mean something--something, I cannot tell what, something
to do with us."

"No," she said, looking at him. "I was only thinking of the music. Wait
for me, dear, I shall not keep you long."

He walked up and down the stage, and in his hand was a wreath that some
admirer had kept for the last. For excitement he could hardly bid the
singers good-night as they passed him. Now it was Tristan, now Brangaene,
now one of the chorus. The question raged within him. Was it fated that
she should marry him? So far as he understood the omens she would not;
but the readings were obscure, and his will threw itself out in
opposition to the influence of Sir Owen. But he was not certain that
that was the direction whence the danger was coming. He could only
exert, however, his will in that direction. At last he saw her coming
down the steep stairs, wrapped in a white opera cloak. They walked in
silence--she all ra