” “Hampstead didn’t suit Lady Ferringhall,” Ennison remarked. " "No, Sir Rowland. ” 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. ‘Charvill?’ uttered Roding frowningly. This was followed by heavy footsteps, and in another moment the dining-room door was flung open. I must see if I have a gown fit to wear. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. The Magdalene.
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