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His name is John Sidney Howard, and he is a member of my club in London. I came in for dinner that night at about eight o'clock, tired after a long day of conferences about my aspect of the war. He was just entering the club ahead of me, a tall and rather emaciated man of about seventy, a little unsteady on his feet. He tripped over the door mat as he went in and stumbled forward; the hall porter jumped out and caught him by the elbow.

       He peered down at the mat and poked it with his umbrella. 'Damned thing caught my toe,' he said. 'Thank you, Peters. Getting old, I suppose. '

       The man smiled. 'Several of the gentlemen have caught their foot there recently, sir,' he said. 'I was speaking to the Steward about it only the other day. '

       The old man said: 'Well, speak to him again and go on speaking till he has it put right. One of these days you'll have me falling dead at your feet. You wouldn't like that to happen - eh?' He smiled quizzically.

       The porter said: 'No, sir, we shouldn't like that to happen. '

       'I should think not. Not the sort of thing one wants to see happen in a club. I don't want to die on a door mat. And I don't want to die in a lavatory, either. Remember the time that Colonel Macpherson died in the lavatory, Peters?'

       'I do, sir. That was very distressing. '

       'Yes. ' He was silent for a moment. Then he said: 'Well, I don't want to die that way, either. See he gets that mat put right. Tell him I said so. '

       'Very good, sir. '

       The old man moved away.

       He said: 'That was Mr Howard, sir. '

       'He seemed to be very much concerned about his latter end. '

       The porter did not smile. 'Yes, sir. Many of the gentlemen talk in that way as they get on. Mr Howard has been a member here for a great many years. '

       I said more courteously: 'Has he? I don't remember seeing him about. '

       The man said: 'He has been abroad for the last few months, I think, sir. But he seems to have aged a great deal since he came back. Getting rather frail now, I'm afraid. '

       I turned away. This bloody war is hard on men of his age,' I said.

       'Yes, sir. That's very true. '

       I went into the club, slung my gas-mask on to a peg, unbuckled my revolver-belt and hung it up, and crowned the lot with my cap. I strolled over to the tape and studied the latest news. It was neither good nor bad. Our Air Force was still knocking hell out of the Ruhr; Rumania was still desperately bickering with her neighbours. The news was as it had been for three months, since France was overrun.

       I went in and had my dinner. Howard was already in the dining-room; apart from us the room was very nearly empty. He had a waiter serving him who was very nearly as old as he was himself, and as he ate his dinner the waiter stood beside his table and chatted to him. I could hardly help overhearing the subject of their conversation. They were talking about cricket, re-living the Test Matches of 1925.