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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
220
While
boating
on
----
last
summer,
we
saw
two
persons,
a
man
and
a
girl
sitting
together
on
the
beach
reading
a
book
with
heads
almost
touching.
"I
wonder
what
they're
reading?"
I
said,
and
I
was
dying
to
know.
We
made
a
few
facetious
guesses.
"Shall
I
ask?"
"Yes,
do,"
said
Mrs.
----.
The
truth
is
we
all
wanted
to
know.
We
were
suddenly
mad
with
curiosity
as
we
watched
the
happy
pair
turning
over
leaf
after
leaf.
While
R----
leaned
on
his
oars,
I
stood
up
in
the
boat
and
threatened
to
shout
out
a
polite
enquiry--just
to
prove
that
the
will
is
free.
But
seeing
my
intention
the
boat-load
grew
nervous
and
said
seriously,
"No,"
which
unnerved
me
at
the
last
moment
so
I
sat
down
again.
Why
was
I
so
afraid
of
being
thought
a
lunatic
by
two
persons
in
the
distance
whom
I
had
never
seen
and
probably
would
never
see
again?
Besides
I
was
a
lunatic--we
all
were.
In
our
post-prandial
perambulations
about
S.
Kensington
G----
and
I
often
pass
the
window
of
a
photographer's
shop
containing
always
a
profusion
of
bare
arms,
chests,
necks,
bosoms
belonging
to
actresses,
aristocrats
and
harlots--some
very
beautiful
indeed.
Yet
on
the
whole
the
window
annoys
us,
especially
one
picture
of
a
young
thing
with
an
arum
lily
(ghastly
plant!)
laid
exquisitely
across
her
breast.
"Why
do
we
suffer
this?"
I
asked
G----,
tapping
the
window
ledge
as
we
stood.
"I
don't
know,"
he
answered
lamely--morose.
(Pause
while
the
two
embittered
young
men
continue
to
look
in
and
the
beautiful
young
women
continue
to
look
out.)
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