” 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. He struck out from the shoulder, and the man measured his length upon the pavement. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. I don’t care! I’m glad I did. ” “Every one must be experimental,” said Mr.
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