There was, at that moment, something so extraordinarily comic in Sally’s appearance. She was really beautiful, with her little dark head, big eyes and finely arched nose — and so absurdly conscious of all these features. There she lay, as complacently feminine as a turtle-dove, with her poised self-conscious head and daintily arranged hands.

“Chris, you swine, do tell me why you’re laughing?”

“I really haven’t the faintest idea.”

At this, she began to laugh, too: “You are mad, you know!”

“Have you been here long?” I asked, looking round the large gloomy room.

“Ever since I arrived in Berlin. Let’s see— that was about two months ago.”

I asked what had made her decide to come out to Germany at all. Had she come alone? No, she’d come with a girl friend. An actress. Older than Sally. The girl had been to Berlin before. She’d told Sally that they’d certainly be able to get work with the Ufa. So Sally borrowed ten pounds from a nice old gentleman and joined her. She hadn’t told her parents anything about it until the two of them had actually arrived in Germany: ‘1 wish you’d met Diana. She was the most marvellous gold-digger you can imagine. She’d get hold of men anywhere — it didn’t matter whether she could speak their language or not. She made me nearly die of laughing. I absolutely adored her.”

But when they’d been together in Berlin three weeks and no job had appeared, Diana had got hold of a banker, who’d taken her oft with him to Paris.

“And left you here alone? I must say I think that was pretty rotten of her.”

“Oh, I don’t know. . . . Everyone’s got to look after themselves. I expect, in her place. I’d have done the same.”

“I bet you wouldn’t!”

“Anyhow, I’m all right. I can always get along alone.”

“How old are you, Sally?”

“Nineteen.”

“Good God! And I thought you were about twenty-five!”

“I know. Everyone does.”