This time he condescended to speak.

“Noth — ing, sir.”

Then I understood that what he meant was: “Poor fool! why don’t you ask for the moon?”

I blushed. Yes, I blushed before the clerk at Keith Prowse’s, and turned to leave the shop. I suppose he thought that as a Christian it was his duty to enlighten my pitiable darkness.

“It’s the first Rosa night to-night,” he said with august affability. “I had a couple of stalls this morning, but I’ve just sold them over the telephone for six pound ten.”

He smiled. His smile crushed me. I know better now. I know that clerks in box-offices, with their correct neckties