,
almost loving. But he treated her distantly, with a touch of contempt.
She sighed, continuing to be gentle. He came round.

One evening of that week Sarah Bernhardt was at the Theatre Royal in
Nottingham, giving "La Dame aux Camelias". Paul wanted to see this old
and famous actress, and he asked Clara to accompany him. He told his
mother to leave the key in the window for him.

"Shall I book seats?" he asked of Clara.

"Yes. And put on an evening suit, will you? I've never seen you in it."

"But, good Lord, Clara! Think of ME in evening suit at the theatre!" he
remonstrated.

"Would you rather not?" she asked.

"I will if you WANT me to; but I s'll feel a fool."

She laughed at him.

"Then feel a fool for my sake, once, won't you?"

The request made his blood flush up.

"I suppose I s'll have to."

"What are you taking a suitcase for?" his mother asked.

He blushed furiously.

"Clara asked me," he said.

"And what seats are you going in?"

"Circle--three-and-six each!"

"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed his mother sarcastically.

"It's only once in the bluest of blue moons," he said.

He dressed at Jordan's, put on an overcoat and a cap, and met Clara in a
cafe. She was with one of her suffragette friends. She wore an old long
coat, which did not suit her, and had a little wrap over her head, which
he hated. The three went to the theatre together.

Clara took off her coat on the stairs, and he discovered she was in a
sort of semi-evening dress, that left her arms and neck and part of her
breast bare. Her hair was done fashionably. The dress, a simple thing
of green crape, suited her. She looked quite grand, he thought. He could
see her figure inside the frock, as if that were wrapped closely round
her. The firmness and the softness of her upright body could almost be
felt as he looked at her. He clenched his fists.

And he was to sit all the evening beside her beautiful naked arm,
watching the strong throat rise from the strong chest, watching the
breasts under the green stuff, the curve of her limbs in the tight
dress. Something in him hated her again for submitting him to this
torture of nearness. And he loved her as she balanced her head and
stared straight in front of her, pouting, wistful, immobile, as if she
yielded herself to her fate because it was too strong for her. She could
not help herself; she was in the grip of something bigger than herself.
A kind of eternal look about her, as if sh