“Sit here. Waiter, bring us a good big lobstah and a salad; and then--er--a small fillet of beef with potatoes fried crisp, and a bottle of my special hock. Ah! and a rum omelette--plenty of rum and sugah. Twig?” And Caister thought: ‘Thank God, I do.’ They had sat down opposite each other at one of two small tables in the little recessed room. “Luck!” said Bryce-Green. “Luck!” replied Caister; and the cocktail trickling down him echoed: ‘Luck!’ “And what do you think of the state of the drama?” Oh! ho! A question after his own heart. Balancing his monocle by a sweetish smile on the opposite side of his mouth, Caister drawled his answer: “Quite too bally awful!” “H’m! Yes,” said Bryce-Green; “nobody with any genius, is there?” And Caister thought: ‘Nobody with any money.’ “Have you been playing anything great? You were so awfully good in ‘Gotta Grampus’!” “Nothing particular. I’ve been--er--rather slack.” And with their feel around his waist his trousers seemed to echo: ‘Slack!’ “Ah!” said Bryce-Green. “Here we are! Do you like claws?” “Tha-a-nks. Anything!” To eat--until warned by the pressure of his waist against his trousers! Huh! What a feast! And what a flow of his own tongue suddenly released--on drama, music, art; mellow and critical, stimulated by the round eyes and interjections of his little provincial host. “By Jove, Caister! You’ve got a _mêche blanche_. Never noticed. I’m awfully interested in _mêches blanches_. Don’t think me too frightfully rude--but did it come suddenly?” “No, gradually.” “And how do you account for it?” ‘Try starvation,’ trembled on Caister’s lips. “I don’t.” “I think it’s ripping. Have some more omelette? I often wish I’d gone on the regular stage myself. Must be a topping life, if one has talent, like you.” Topping? “Have a cigar. Waiter! Coffee and cigars. I shall come and see you to-night. Suppose you’ll be here a week?” Topping! The laughter and applause--“Mr. Caister’s rendering left nothing to be desired; its ---- and its ---- are in the true spirit of ----!” Silence recalled him from his rings of smoke. Bryce-Green was sitting, with cigar held out and mouth a little open, and bright eyes round as pebbles, fixed--fixed on some object near the floor, past the corner of the tablecloth. Had he burnt his mouth? The eyelids fluttered; he looked at Caister, licked his lips like a dog, nervously, and said: “I say, old chap, don’t think me a beast, but are you at all--er--er--rocky? I mean--if I can be of any service, don’t hesitate! Old acquaintance, don’t you know, and all that----”