“I liked that kid best—­that girl on the funny pony.  She must have been at the Folies Bergeres, don’t you think?  Folies Bergeres sounds French, and she was making sort of French noises.  She made me laugh.”  Something wistful and hungry came into his shrill voice.  He pressed close to Robert’s side.  “I like people who make me laugh.  I like them better than anything in the world, don’t you?  It’s jolly to be able to laugh like that—­right from one’s inside——­”

But Robert only smiled scornfully, hugging his secret closer to himself.

3

She came on for the last time in the Final, when the whole circus, including the Legless Wonder, paraded round the ring to the competitive efforts of both bands.  Robert’s eyes followed her with anguish.  It wasn’t happiness any more.  He might have been a condemned man counting the last minutes of his life.  He was almost glad when it was over and her upright figure had vanished under the arch.  People began to fidget and reach for their hats and coats.  A grubby youth with a hot, red face and a tray slung round his neck pushed his way between the benches shouting:  “Signed photographs of the c’lebrities, twopence each!” in a raucous indifferent voice.  Robert waved to him, and he took no notice.

“Hi—­hi!” Robert called faintly.

The youth stopped.  He was terribly bored at first, but his boredom became a cynical amusement.  There were twenty different photographs of Madame Gloria Moretti: 

Madame Moretti full face, side face, three-quarter face, on her famous horse Arabesque, with her beautiful foot on Arabesque’s prostrate form, in evening dress, stepping into her car—­a car, at any rate—­and so on, with “Gloria Moretti” scrawled nobly across every one of them.  Robert bought them all.  He stuffed them into his coat pockets, into his trouser pockets.  He dropped them.  He dropped the pennies and sixpences which he tried to count into the tray with shaking fingers.  He was drunk and reckless with his despairing love.  The sales-boy winked at everyone in general.

“Takin’ it ’ard, ain’t ’e, the young dawg?”

People smiled tolerantly.  Their smiles said as plainly as possible:  “We remember being just as silly as that,” and Robert hated them.  It wasn’t true.  They didn’t remember.  They had forgotten.  Or, if they remembered at all, it was only the things they had done, not what they had felt—­the frightful pain that was an undreamed-of happiness, and the joy that tore the heart out of you, and the wonder of a new discovery.  You lost yourself, You gave everything that you were and had.  You asked nothing, hoped for nothing.  And suddenly you became strong so that you were not afraid any more of anything in the world—­not of punishment nor disgrace, nor even laughter.

But they pretended to understand.  Their pretence made you despise and pity them.  It was a horrid thing, as though a skeleton came to life and jiggled its bones and mouthed at you, “You see, I used to do that too.”  That was why you told lies to them—­even to Christine.