"But you seem sad; what is it?"
"It seemed to mean something—something, I cannot tell what, something to do with us."
"No," she said, looking at him. "I was only thinking of the music. Wait for me, dear, I shall not keep you long."
He walked up and down the stage, and in his hand was a wreath that some admirer had kept for the last. For excitement he could hardly bid the singers good-night as they passed him. Now it was Tristan, now Brangäne, now one of the chorus. The question raged within him. Was it fated that she should marry him? So far as he understood the omens she would not; but the readings were obscure, and his will threw itself out in opposition to the influence of Sir Owen. But he was not certain that that was the direction whence the danger was coming. He could only exert, however, his will in that direction. At last he saw her coming down the steep stairs, wrapped in a white opera cloak. They walked in silence—she all rapture, but his happiness already clouded. The brougham was so full of flowers that they, could hardly find place for themselves. She drew him closer, and said—
"What is the matter, dear? Am I not nice to you?"
"Yes, Evelyn, you're an enchantment. Only—"
"Only what, dear?"
"I fear our future. I fear I shall lose you. All has come true so far, the end must happen."
She drew his arm about her waist, and laid his face on her bare shoulder.
"Let there be no foreboding. Live in the present."