oke.

'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.

'Ragtime and you!' he went on. 'They don't blend. Ragtime is for
tired brains and jaded senses, for people who have lost all instinct
and intuition. What have you to do with them? You will simply beat
yourself to death upon their hard indifference.... You are only a
child. You should be packed off home.'

'And suppose I have none.'

He shrugged his shoulders.

'That w