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The curtain rose out of the concluding bars of the overture and revealed Isolde on the prow of the barbaric ship. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night.
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