Theatre Page 0,32

of nature. That suited her very well. It was no effort for her to be ingenuous, frank and girlishly delighted with everything. He took her to the National Gallery, and the Tate, and the British Museum, and she really enjoyed it almost as much as she said. He liked to impart information and she was glad to receive it. She had a retentive memory and learnt a great deal from him. If later she was able to talk about Proust and Cezanne with the best of them, so that you were surprised and pleased to find so much culture in an actress, it was to him she owed it. She knew that he had fallen in love with her some time before he knew it himself. She found it rather comic. From her standpoint he was a middle-aged man, and she thought of him as a nice old thing. She was madly in love with Michael. When Charles realized that he loved her his manner changed a little, he seemed struck with shyness and when they were together was often silent.

"Poor lamb," she said to herself, "he's such a hell of a gentleman he doesn't know what to do about it."

But she had already prepared her course of conduct for the declaration which she felt he would sooner or later bring himself to make. One thing she was going to make quite clear to him. She wasn't going to let him think that because he was a lord and she was an actress he had only to beckon and she would hop into bed with him. If he tried that sort of thing she'd play the outraged tieroine on him, with the outflung arm and the index extended in the same line, as Jane Taitbout had taught tier to make the gesture, pointed at the door. On the other hand if he was shattered and tongue-tied, she'd be ill tremulous herself, sobs in the voice and all that, and she'd say it had never dawned on her that he felt like that about her, and no, no, it would break Michael's leart. They'd have a good cry together and then everything would be all right. With his beautiful manners she could count upon him not making a nuisance of himself when she had once got it into his head that there was nothing doing. But when it happened it did not turn out in the least as she had expected. Charles Tamerley and Julia had been for a walk in St. James's Park, they had looked at the pelicans, and the scene suggesting it, they had discussed the possibility of her playing Millamant on a Sunday evening. They went back to Julia's flat to have a cup of tea. They shared a crumpet.* Then Charles got up to go. He took a miniature out of his pocket and gave it to her.

"It's a portrait of Clairon. She was an eighteenth-century actress and she had many of your gifts."

Julia looked at the pretty, clever face, with the powdered hair, and wondered whether the stones that framed the little picture were diamonds or only paste.

"Oh, Charles, how can you! You are sweet."

"I thought you might like it. It's by way of being a parting present."

"Are you going away?"

She was surprised, for he had said nothing about it. He looked at her with a faint smile.

"No. But I'm not going to see you any more."

"Why?"

"I think you know just as well as I do."

Then Julia did a disgraceful thing. She sat down and for a minute looked silently at the miniature. Timing it perfectly, she raised her eyes till they met Charles's. She could cry almost at will, it was one of her most telling accomplishments, and now without a sound, without a sob, the tears poured down her cheeks. With her mouth slightly open, with the look in her eyes of a child that has been deeply hurt and does not know why, the effect was unbearably pathetic. His face was crossed by a twinge of agony. When he spoke his voice was hoarse with emotion.

"You're in love with Michael, aren't you?"

She gave a little nod. She tightened her lips as though she were trying to control herself, but the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"There's no chance for me at all?" He waited for some answer from her, but she gave none, she raised her hand to her mouth and seemed to bite a nail, and still she stared at