'To-morrow morning,' said Charles. 'I'll go.' He turned away and basked in the smiles and congratulations of the Bracebridge-Butcher set. Verschoyle returned to Rodd,-- 'That's all right,' he said. 'I was afraid that with this success he'd want to stick it out. These idealists are so infernally self-righteous.' Lady Butcher returned with Clara, looking very pale and slender in a little black silk frock. Sir Henry came up to her at once and took possession of her. He whispered in her ear,-- 'Did you get my flowers?' 'Yes.' 'And my note?' 'Yes.' 'Will you stay?' 'No.' Her hand went to her heart as she saw Rodd. How came he here in this oppressive company? She was sorry and hated his being there. She received her congratulations listlessly and accepted, without the smallest intention of acting upon her acceptance, all her invitations. Rodd was there. That was all she knew, he was there among those empty, voracious people. He moved towards her and caught her as she was passed from one group to another. 'Forgive me,' he said. 'I had to come and see you. I thought it was for the last time.... I know all your story, even down to to-night. He is going away.' 'Charles?' 'Yes.' 'I can't stay here. I can't stand it.... You are not going to stay.' 'How do you know?' 'I was with you all through to-night....' Their eyes met. Again there was nothing but they two. All pretence, all mummery had vanished. Life had become pure and strong, more rich and wonderful even than the play in which, baffled by the chances of life, she had striven to live. 'To-morrow,' she said, 'I am going to the bookshop at half-past twelve.' He bowed and left her, and meeting Mr Clott or Cumberland on the stairs of his house he had the satisfaction of shaking him until his teeth rattled, and of telling him that Mr Charles Mann had gone abroad for an indefinite period. XVIII LOVE The late September sun shone sweetly down upon Charing Cross Road, and its beams stole into the bookshop where the bookseller, in his shirt sleeves, sat wrestling with the accounts which he struggled to keep accurately. He hated them. Of all books the most detestable are account books. What has a man who trades in mind to do with money? Far better is it to have good books stolen than to keep them lying dusty on the shelf.