'I must know more of you if I am to accept your gift.'
'You talk such perfect English,' he said, marvelling at her. 'People
do not talk like that nowadays, but a slipshod jargon.'
'I have lived abroad,' she told him, and without more they walked out
into the street together, she hugging the book very dose.
They had walked some distance in silence before he spoke.
'Was it by accident that you were in that shop?'
'Oh, no,' said she. 'The old man is a friend of mine.'
(He noticed that she said 'the old' and not as most people did 'the
yold.' It was this perfection in her that made her so incredible. To
the very finest detail she was perfect and he knew not whether to laugh
or to weep.)
'It is absurd,' he said in his heart, 'it can't happen like this. It
can't be true.'
Clara had no thought of anything but to make him open up his mind and
heart to her, most easily and painlessly to break the taut strain in
him.
They turned into a tea-shop in Coventry Street, and he sat glowering at
her. A small orchestra was crashing out a syncopated tune. The place
was full of suburban people enjoying their escape into a vulgar
excitement provided for them by the philanthropy of Joseph Lyons. The
room was all gilt and marble and plentiful electric light. A waitress
came up to them, but Rodd was so intent upon Clara that he could not
collect his thoughts, and she had to order tea.
'Who are you?' he asked.
'I am an actress at the Imperium.'
He flung back his head and gave a shout of laughter.
'Is it funny?' she asked.
'Very.'