that give moments of perfection wherein all is revealed and nothing
remains hidden.

Was there ever a more perfect moment than when Clara and Rodd met in
the bookshop, each for the other having renounced all that had seemed
of worth. Death might have come at that moment and both would have
been satisfied, for richer, deeper, and simpler music there could not
be.... She was amazed at the new mastery in him. The pained
sensitiveness that had cramped him was all gone. He came direct to
her, took possession of her without waiting for an impulse from her
will. They met now in complete freedom and were frankly lovers.

The little bookseller in dismay looked from one to the other, but held
his peace. Clara reminded him that he had once remarked how life
consisted in men and women pulling each other through.

'That's so,' he said. 'Most of 'em trample on the rest.'

'Well,' said Clara. 'We've done it. We have pulled each other
through.'

'Out of the burning,' said Rodd, with a laugh.

'Indeed! Are you going to join her in the play-acting?'

'Not at all,' said Clara. 'I'm going to join him in the play-writing.
I have been a star for one night only.... If we starve, I shall make
you take me on as your assistant. You could pay me a salary now.'

'I cannot see a man wi' a jowl like that letting his young leddy
starve,' chuckled the bookseller.

They bought each other as presents the following books: _The Dramatic
Works of J. M. Synge, The Love Letters of Abelard and Heloise, The
Marriage of Figaro, Tom Jones_, and six volumes of _The Works of Henrik
Ibsen_, which were going cheap. These they ordered to be sent to her
rooms, and with the bookseller's blessing--so hearty that it was well
worth having--on their happiness they set out to reproduce in every
detail the day of their first excursion.

They went by Tube to Highgate, and walked to Hampstead across the
Heath, but when they came to the inn with the swing-boats and
roundabouts they found them deserted, and were annoyed. They wanted
the story told over and over again in exact replica, not varying by a
simple detail. As that was impossible they had tea at the inn, and he
told her the full and true story how he met her in the bookshop in the
Charing Cross Road. She listened like a happy child, and she asked,--

'Did he love her?'

'As the earth the sun.'

But as they left the inn, history did repeat itself, for a girl turned
and watched Clara envi