“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. Wood was once a favourite of yours. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. This—all this swamps them. 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. Women, she had been taught, who exposed the flesh of their bodies under the eyes of man were in a special catagory of the damned. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. They sat down, McClintock reaching for a lump of sugar which he began munching. “You cannot give me ultimatums. International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. Taking the wind was her business in life.
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