With his rather absurd tendency to generalise from his personal experience he told himself that as youth and joy had been liberated from his imagined world, so also would they be in the world of actuality. His drooping hopes revived and a new ambition was kindled in him. He paced less rapidly to and fro in his empty room, slowed down day by day until he stopped, sat at his table and plunged once more into work. His arrogance reasserted itself, and he told himself--as was indeed the case--that he could extract more from a hint of experience than the ordinary man could from an overwhelming tragedy. As he worked, he came more and more to regard his encounter with Clara as a holiday adventure. The Charing Cross Road was to him what Paris or the seaside was to the ordinary worker. The episode belonged to his holiday. It was nothing more, and must be treated as though it had happened to some other man: it must be smiled at, treasured for its fragrance, blessed for its fertility.... With the new weapon it had given him he would return to tobacco and paper, the materials of his existence. He saw her name in the papers, her photograph here and there. Oh, well, she belonged to that world. No doubt she would amuse herself with theatrical success before she fell back upon the title and wealth which were laid at her feet. However, convinced though he was of his renunciation, he could not stay away from the bookshop and went there almost every day in the hope of meeting her. One evening as he returned home he met Verschoyle on the doorstep of his house, and could not refrain from speaking to him. 'Excuse me,' he said, 'I have seen you sometimes in the bookshop in Charing Cross Road.' 'Indeed?' replied Verschoyle, who was looking anxious and worried. 'Yes. I have seen you there with Miss Day.' Verschoyle was alert and suspicious at once. He scanned this strange individual but was rather puzzled. 'Do you live here?' he asked. 'On the top floor,' replied Rodd, 'on the top floor--alone--I thought you might have been to see me.' 'No, no. I don't know you.' 'My name is Rodd.' That conveyed nothing to Verschoyle. 'I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Day at the bookshop. I thought she might have mentioned it.' 'No.... I have been to see a Miss Messenger on the third floor. Do you know her?' 'Slightly.' 'You know nothing about her?' 'Nothing, except that she had a child that died.... I'm afraid I didn't even know her name. I don't bother myself much about my neighbours.' 'Thank you,' said Verschoyle. 'Good-night.' Rodd let himself in, his curiosity working furiously at this strange combination of persons. What on earth could be the link between Verschoyle and the shabby, disreputable menage on the third floor?... His heart answered ominously: 'Clara.'