I could no longer concentrate on the play during the second act: I sat in my own dark knot and thought. About Mrs. Von Blerke, and Mike Papini, and Mary Scott now Summers, and David, and Wyndham Farrar, and Sophy Brent. And not for the first time I watched and wondered at the seemingly simultaneous and independent workings of so many bits of machinery that seemed to be me, and that seemed to make up, on a larger scale (all life being an emblem of all other life), society. And I wondered whether I was right to pay such attention to the part of me that responded with disturbing eagerness to the overtures of a man like Wyndham Farrar, for what was it that responded in this way but the physical rubbish of me, the blood and skin and so forth, and a whole heap of tatty romantic notions picked up from our tatty sexual decadence? Because reason as I might, and as I did, it was this part, this dark and wanting part, that seemed to have reality, that seemed to tug and suck and pull at the rest of me with overriding need.

At the end of the show the applause was enthusiastic, as was to be expected. The play itself was highly entertaining, and not a laugh had been missed. There were cheers and bravos, and when the noise began to die away the moment happened that I had been waiting for: the moment of the speech. It was delivered by some civic dignitary, who thanked the cast for a delightful evening, and Selwyn for his direction, and the architect for his design and above all for the easy access to bars at intervals (laughter), and Wyndham Farrar, who had greatly distinguished the undertaking by his co-operation and enthusiasm, and whose own productions were eagerly awaited; and then he thanked those who had made the venture possible, the Arts Council of Great Britain, various local donors, “but above all Mrs. Charlotte Von Blerke, to whose generosity this building and this whole enterprise owe their existence, and without whose help we should not be here tonight.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Von Blerke herself has been prevented by illness from being with us tonight, which I am sure will grieve us as much as it will doubtless grieve her, for I know how much she has cherished the idea of this theatre and how closely she has followed all our plans and discussions. We can only hope that she will be able to be with us at the opening of the next production, in a few days’ time. In the meantime we can only deplore her absence, wish her a speedy return to health and thank her for the inestimable value of the gift which she has bestowed upon our city.”

And the audience applauded dutifully the dead wet lady, who floated from some fishlike watery depths of coincidence across the trivial, sentimental drama of my life.