So quickly had he moved that she was taken by surprise, and he had reached the threshold of the shop before she ran after him and touched him on the arm. 'Please,' she said. 'You have forgotten one thing--the date.' He wrote the date in the book, and was for going, but she said,-- '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.' She smiled a little maliciously and asked.-- 'Who are you?' 'I'm a queer fish.... I've wasted my life in expecting more from people than they had to give, and in offering them more than they needed.' 'You look tired.' 'I am tired--tired out.... You're not really an actress.' 'I'm paid for it if that makes me one.' 'I mean--you are not playing a part now. Actresses never stop. They take their cues from their husbands and lovers and go on until they drop. Their husbands and lovers generally kick them out before they do that.... The ordinary woman is an actress in her small way, but you are not so at all.... I can't place you. What are you doing in London? You ought not to be in London. You ought to leave us stewing in our own juice.' The waitress brought them tea and the orchestra flung itself into a more outrageous effort than before.