you say?—­domestic—­not really of ze Circus at all.  She like to wash up and cook leetle bonnes-bouches for supper.  She was a German—­Fredechen we call ’er—­and she could make Sauerkraut—­eh bien, I—­moi qui vous parle—­une bonne Francaise—­I make myself sick with ’er Sauerkraut.  Afterwards she grow too stout and marry ze proprietaire of what you call it?—­a public-’ouse—­’Ze Crown and Garter’ at some town where we stop a week.  By now, I think she ’ave many children and a chin for each.”

Cosgrave laughed noisily.

“Didn’t I tell you, Robert?  A barmaid!”

“Yes—­you had better taste.”  But he was hot with anger.  “And then you came at her heels, Mademoiselle.  You rode—­what was it—­a donkey, a fat pony?  I forget which.  Perhaps I was thinking too much of Madame Moretti.  But I remember you were dressed as a page and wore coloured tights that didn’t fit very well, and that everybody laughed because of your thin long legs.  And you threw kisses to us—­even Cosgrave got one, didn’t you, Cosgrave?  And then I’m afraid I forgot you altogether.  You see, there were camels and elephants and a legless Wonder and I don’t know what, and it was my first circus.”

“It must ’ave been a donkey,” she said, narrowing her eyes.  “I ’ave ridden so many donkeys.”

He saw then that she did not mind at all the fact that she had once been a circus-clown.  Rather he had tossed her a memory on which she feasted joyfully, almost greedily.  She pushed her plate and glass away from her, and sat with her face between her hands.

“Well—­I ’ave ’ad good times always—­but per’aps they were ze best of all.  Ah, ze good old Circus—­ze jolly life—­one big family—­monkeys and bears and camels and elephants and we poor ’umans, all shapes and sizes, long legs and short legs and no legs—­loving and quarrelling—­good friends always—­Monsieur George with ’is big whip and ’is silly soft ’eart—­ze gay dinners after we ’ave ’ad full ’ouse and ze no dinners at all when things go bad—­and then ze journeys from town to town—­sometimes it rain all day and sometimes it is so hot and the dust rise up and smother us.  But always when we come near ze town we brighten up, we pretend we are not tired at all.  We make jokes and wonder what it will be like ’ere.  Always new faces—­new streets—­new policemen—­and always ze same too—­ze long procession and ze torchlights and ze music and ze people running like leetle streams down ze side streets to join up and march along—­ze leetle boys and girls with bright eyes—­shouting and waving, so glad to see us.”

It was not much that she said, and she did not say it to them.  She disregarded them all, and yet by some magic, through the medium of the jerky, empty sentences she made them see the vulgar, gaudy thing as she was seeing it.  The subdued music, the tinkling of plates and glasses, they themselves made a background for her swift picture.  They watched it—­the old third-rate circus—­trail its cheap glitter and flare and bang out of darkness and across the stage and into darkness again—­tawdry and sordid, and yet kindly and gay and gallant-hearted too.