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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
256
No
answer.
I
continued
to
stand
by
my
chair.
"How
pleased
Swift,
Johnson,
Lamb,
and
other
anti-Caledonians
would
be...."
"Hope
you
don't
mind
my
occupying
your
chair
a
little
longer,"
the
Scotchman
said,
"but
this
is
a
larva,
has
curious
maxillæ...."
and
his
voice
faded
away
in
abstraction.
"Oh!
no--go
on,"
I
said,
"I
fear
it
is
a
grievous
absence
of
hospitality
on
my
part
in
not
providing
you
with
a
glass
of
whiskey.
Can
I
offer
you
water,
Sir?"
No
answer.
Another
enthusiast
ushered
himself
in,
was
greeted
with
delight
by
the
first
and
invited
to
sit
down.
I
pulled
out
a
chair
for
him
and
said:
"Shave,
sir,
or
hair
cut?"
"If
you
follow
along
to
the
top
of
the
galea,"
No.
I
droned
on
imperturbably,
"you
will...."
etc.
I
got
tired
of
standing
and
talking
to
an
empty
house
but
at
last
they
got
up,
apologising
and
making
for
the
door.
I
entreated
them
not
to
mention
the
matter--my
fee
should
be
nominal--I
did
it
out
of
sheer
love,
etc.
They
thanked
me
again
and
would
have
said
more
but
I
added
blandly:
"You
know
your
way
out?"
They
assured
me
they
did
(having
worked
in
the
place
for
30
years
and
more)--I
thanked
God--and
sat
down
to
my
table
once
more.
(These
reports
of
conversations
are
rather
fatuous:
yet
they
give
an
idea
of
the
sort
of
person
I
have
to
deal
with,
and
also
the
sort
of
person
I
am
among
this
sort
of
person.)
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