“I met him here a couple of months ago, just as I met you. Tall, fine-looking man, he was, white-haired, with a short, close-cut beard. Well dressed: a successful family business man--that’s what he looked. Heaven knows what he thought he was doing here. Change, I suppose; an empty hour to be filled in somehow. Perhaps he used to come here when he was a boy and felt sentimental suddenly. At any rate, he came in and stood at the corner of the bar and ordered a brown sherry and looked very self-conscious and out of place. I nudged the girl next me. ‘The 396th hymn,’ I said. ‘Two minutes and he’ll be in the pulpit.’ And we laughed and had another, and told a couple of bluish stories. And then, suddenly, I found myself getting uncomfortable, and I realised that I was being stared at, stared at in a curious, creepy sort of way, as though I was being looked through for something that was behind me. It went on that stare, till I couldn’t stick it any longer. I walked across to him. ‘Well, old sport,’ I said, ‘this is me. Now, what about it?’ “He stammered a little and looked embarrassed. “‘Yes--I--I’m sorry. It was rude of me, but ... well, you remind me very much of someone.’ “‘And who might that be?’ I asked. “‘An actress. You probably wouldn’t know her. We thought a lot of her once--Pussy Willow.’ “It knocked me sideways, I can tell you. I thought the world had forgotten Pussy, or that those who did remember wouldn’t recognise her now in what she is. “‘You ought to be a detective then,’ I says, ‘you’ve touched the right target.’ “It told. I hoped it would. He stammered: ‘What! you--you really are the Pussy Willow who----’ “And suddenly, for cheek, I cocked back my hat as I used to at the jolly old Vaudeville, and I plumped my fists down on my hips and swayed backwards and began to sing the first verse of that old thing of mine--you remember it, when I wore that great silver dress, ‘Love is the song of a girl and a boy.’ “He knew then: ‘Pussy Willow!’ he murmured. Then stood looking at me as they all do, those that remember me, when I tell them who I am; looked at me till I got all hot and shivery. “‘Oh, come off it,’ I said, ‘Give me a drink, old pal.’ “He seemed to pull himself together with a start. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I forgot. Waiter, send a bottle of champagne over to that table and some sandwiches.’ “By the time one’s got to my age one’s learnt not to be surprised at anything. ‘Gee, girls,’ I said, ‘but it’s a party!’ And I followed him across and began to chatter about old times. I thought that was what he wanted, to be made to feel young again. But I soon saw that he was not listening to what I was saying, that he had something of his own to say, but didn’t know how to say it, so I just chattered on till he was ready. “It came, all of a heap, like an explosion, right across one of my best stories.