“But why Tristan did not come to life when the Liebestod was sung over him,” she said, “is what I cannot imagine. Surely it was enough to make the dead live.”
“Sing it over me, then,” said Hugh, “when you watch by my corpse. I will come to life, I promise you, which is more than I did to-night. What Vandals, to interrupt like that!”
“Yes, Vandals,” said she; “but I didn’t feel surprised.”
“O, that’s all rot,” said Hugh. “But how I loved the interruption, and how I longed to open one eyelid. But I didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Hugh leaned forward over the table, his eyes and his hands toward his wife.
“My life!” he said. “How stupid that sort of phrase used to sound until one knew that it was true. My life! Yes, I look at you, my life; that has become literally true. Oh, true in big ways and small ways alike.”
The cigarette was getting shorter, and Hugh took a long inhalation of it, and flipped off a piece of charred paper.
“Yes, big ways and small ways,” he repeated. “Big ways, because you gave me myself, which is you, and small ways because I sang to-night, both in the silly opera-house and on that silly balcony, because I was you. Don’t you understand? Sometimes I think you don’t and it is so odd that you shouldn’t.”
Still Edith was silent, for she would have to speak very soon now, and without a pause Hugh went on—