He rested his cigarette on the ashtray so that he could use his hands to demonstrate. “A film is a long strip of pictures taken by the camera. You see the camera operator winding the reel of film through as he films, do you not?”

I nodded. David held up the palm of his left hand and made rolling movements over it with his right. “Well, when the film is shown, it is passed over a light at the correct speed, and the pictures seem to move.” He picked up his cigarette and flicked the ash off the end. “Each second, twenty-four frames pass over the light, which is the speed that gives the most natural-looking movement we can achieve.”

I considered this. “So the one hundred and one frames during which I was on the newsreel took … about four seconds to show?”

“Roughly, yes. Good God, Eddie!” he admonished the driver, “are you driving a car or a horse? Faster, man!”

“Four seconds?” I was amazed. I counted four seconds to myself as I sat there, trying to digest the information that such a tiny space of time had transformed my existence. The newsreel had been filmed on May Day, the first of May. Now, as I looked out of the window at the hazy August sky and the thick foliage of the hedgerows, I was filled with disbelief. How could so much have happened so quickly? Less than four months ago I had been a farmer’s daughter whose only connection with films was the Pier Pavilion Café – and my imagination. Now, I was travelling in a smart car with a fur around my neck, sitting beside a director. I felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball.

“Believe me, Clara, that four seconds was enough,” said David. “You see, I had a strong suspicion that you would be good, and when I saw your screen test I knew I was right.” He straightened up in the seat and looked absently out of the window, his chin resting on his hand. In profile, intermittently lit by the slanting sunlight, his good looks took on a different aspect; I could see the muscles in his cheeks and jaw, and note how perfectly formed his ears were, and how delicate the shape of his nose. He was without doubt the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Not for the first time, I wondered if he had ever tried his own hand at acting.

“I felt such an idiot,” I told him. “I was sure I would get a letter saying ‘thank you for attending, but we do not wish to see you again’.”

“You did not look an idiot. You looked as I had predicted: graceful in movement and expression, and able to convey emotions. You know, because the audience cannot hear their words, I always look for actors and actresses who can act ‘big’, though not so big that it becomes over-theatrical.”

The only theatrical productions I had seen were amateur ones in Aberaeron Church Hall, which had not impressed me much. “Like acting in the theatre, you mean?”

David pondered, still gazing out. The buildings had become taller and the traffic had increased; we were nearing the centre of London. “Like some acting in the theatre,” he said. “I have seen wonderful, realistic acting on the stage, and I have seen execrable overacting too. In films, we have to strike a balance. And you are very good at it indeed.” He turned away from the window and smiled, his thoughtful expression transforming into tenderness as I watched. “For which I shall be eternally grateful. Good actresses, who are as exquisitely formed as you in face and figure, are very difficult to find. Now, Eddie has at last got a move on. We shall be at the hotel in good time for cocktails.” He squeezed my arm. “What will you have? A gin sling?”