" Out of the beaten track! thought Spurlock. Men are always doing it, and if you set up to be a man—” “No, it’s absolutely out of the question, Mr. . A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. I suppose I ought to have been a man. 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. Confidence in himself would strengthen him. She stood up and he sat down at the microscope, and for a time he was busy scrutinizing one section after another. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour.
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