He could not hear what she was saying, but her voice went thrilling to his heart. He gasped and reeled and dropped Charles Mann's book with a crash.
Clara, who had not seen him, turned, and she, too, was overcome. He moved towards her, and stood devouring her with his eyes, and hers sought his.
'This is Rodd,' said the bookseller. 'Adnor Rodd, a great friend of mine.'
'Rodd,' repeated Clara.
'He is very much interested in the theatre,' said the bookseller.
'I was just looking at Charles Mann's new book.... Will you let me give it you?'
He moved away to pick up the book and came back clutching it, took out his fountain pen and wrote in it in a small, precise hand,—
'To my friend, from Adnor Rodd.'
'My name is Clara Day,' said she,
'You can't have a name yet.... You are just you.'