” “Alive! In London!” Annabel moaned. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. ' Why," said Ruth, "you did not read that to us. I think not, Annabel. I can’t help you a cent. ” 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.
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