There were three hundred guests. The chair was taken by Professor Laverock, as a distinguished representative of modern painting, and he declared Mann to be the equal of Blake in vision, of Forain in technique, of Shelley in clear idealism. Representatives of the intellectual theatre of the time were present and spoke, but the theatre of success was unrepresented. There were critics, literary men, journalists of both sexes, idealists of both sexes, arrivists, careerists, everybody who had ever pleaded publicly for the theatre as a vehicle of art. Professor Laverock declared it to be Mann's mission to open the theatre to the musician, the poet, and the painter, and, if he might express his secret hope, to close it to the actor. There were many speeches, but Clara sat through them all staring straight in front of her, wondering if a single person in the room really understood what Charles wanted and what he meant. Whether they did so or not, Charles did not help them much, for in response to the toast of his health he rose, beamed boyishly at the company and said, 'I'm so happy to be back. Thank you very much. The theatre needs love. I give you my love.' He sat down so suddenly that Clara gasped, and was frightened for a second or two by the idea that he had been taken ill. But when she turned to where he sat, he was chatting gaily to his neighbour and seemed to be unaware of any omission. She heard a man near her say, 'I did hope he was going to be indiscreet,' and she felt with acute disappointment that this was just a dinner, just an entertainment among many dinners and entertainments, and she was ashamed. Charles, however, was delighted. 'Such nice people,' he said, as they walked home, 'such delightful people, and what a good dinner!' 'Get away. I hate you. You're horrible,' cried Clara, flinging from him. '_Now_ what's the matter?' he asked, utterly taken aback. 'You're so easily pleased,' she answered. 'People have only to be nice to you and you think the whole world is Heaven.' 'So it is with you, chicken.' 'Oh! Don't be so pleased! Don't be so pleased! Do lose your temper with me sometimes! I'm not a child.' 'But they _were_ nice people.' 'They weren't. They were dreadful people. They were only there because they think you _may_ succeed, and then there will be jobs for them all.' 'You see through people so much that you forget they are people at all.' 'That comes from living with you. I have to see through you to realise that you are a person....' 'Oh! I _am_ a person then?' 'Only to me.... You reflect everybody else.' 'They are not worth more.' 'They are. Everybody is. If only you would be yourself to them, they would be themselves.' 'Oh!'