"It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. “Why?” “I still love you. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. “Well, well, Martin. I don’t think we’re altogether to blame if we don’t take some of your lot seriously. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. Then she burst into a peal of laughter. Gentlemen,—Mr. Sometimes we had the Illustrated London News and Tit-Bits. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. She leaned a little towards him. Meanwhile, she was spirited away from John and bombarded by half-familiar people who attempted to chat with her above the roar of the crowd. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense.
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