‘Got a light?’ the voice husked again, but without resentment; thirty seconds’ wait is no inconvenience. Charles carefully turned and did his best to focus on the man’s expanding and contracting face. Without a word he took out his matchbox, and, with extreme care, drew out the inner compartment. As it was upside down, the matches cascaded to the floor. Immediately Charles stooped to gather them up, violently thrusting against the legs of someone standing at the bar. The man staggered, protesting vehemently, but with no thought of apologizing Charles concentrated doggedly on his task of collecting the matches. Whether they were in fact swimming in a puddle of spilt beer, or merely appeared to be swirling and writhing to his disordered vision, he could not tell; but it was some minutes before he had picked up the last one, and replaced them in the box with their heads all pointing the same way. Erect once more, he turned to the man who had asked for the light, and whose face was no longer expanding and contracting but alternately coming close and receding to an immense distance. Again he opened the box, and selecting a match from its circling nest, struck it and held it out. But at that instant the face, which had been unbearably close to his, rushed back into the distance. With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, Charles thrust the burning match out to the full extent of his arm.

Immediately the face ceased to be a face, and became a purple sphere of fury with two vast coloured eyes. As the match sank sizzling into his limp moustache, and the flame flickered for an instant up his nostrils, the man started back with a hoarse cry of pain and anger. Charles, too, lurched backwards, unnerved by the sudden noise. Since the bar was by now too full to allow of any sudden movement, elbows were violently jogged, jets of beer shot out in several directions, and a loud volley of oaths rose above the general rumble of conversation.