‘That I do not yet know. ” 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. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. He felt that he was getting on with her very slowly indeed, but he did not see how he could get on faster. And for me there is only one treasure-house. ‘So now we come to it. He was beginning to think about her inordinately. In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong.
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