His eyes rolled out again towards the object, and Caister followed them. Out there above the carpet he saw it--his own boot. It dangled, because his knees were crossed, six inches off the ground--split--right across, twice, between lace and toecap. Quite! He knew it. A boot left him from the rôle of Bertie Carstairs, in ‘The Dupe,’ just before the war. Good boots. His only pair, except the boots of Dr. Dominick, which he was nursing. And from the boot he looked back at Bryce-Green, sleek and concerned. A drop, black when it left his heart, suffused his eye behind the monocle; his smile curled bitterly; he said: “Not at all, thanks! Why?” “Oh! n-n-nothing. It just occurred to me.” His eyes--but Caister had withdrawn the boot. Bryce-Green paid the bill and rose. “Old chap, if you’ll excuse me; engagement at half-past two. So awf’ly glad to have seen you. Good-bye!” “Good-bye!” said Caister. “And thanks!” He was alone. And, chin on hand, he stared through his monocle into an empty coffee cup. Alone with his heart, his boot, his life to come.... ‘And what have you been in lately, Mr. Caister?’ ‘Nothing very much lately. Of course I’ve played almost everything.’ ‘Quite so. Perhaps you’ll leave your address; can’t say anything definite, I’m afraid.’ ‘I--I should--er--be willing to rehearse on approval; or--if I could read the part?’ ‘Thank you, afraid we haven’t got as far as that.’ ‘No? Quite! Well, I shall hear from you, perhaps.’ And Caister could see his own eyes looking at the manager. God! What a look.... A topping life! A dog’s life! Cadging--cadging--cadging for work! A life of draughty waiting, of concealed beggary, of terrible depressions, of want of food! The waiter came skating round as if he desired to clear. Must go! Two young women had come in and were sitting at the other table between him and the door. He saw them look at him, and his sharpened senses caught the whisper: “Sure--in the last act. Don’t you see his _mêche blanche_?” “Oh! yes--of course! Isn’t it--wasn’t he----!” Caister straightened his back; his smile crept out, he fixed his monocle. They had spotted his Dr. Dominick! “If you’ve quite finished, sir, may I clear?” “Certainly. I’m going.” He gathered himself and rose. The young women were gazing up. Elegant, with faint smile, he passed them close, managing--so that they could not see--his broken boot. 1922. STROKE OF LIGHTNING This was before the war, and conditions were such that the tragedies and comedies of private lives seemed still to have importance.