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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
259
"How
would
it
get
from
your
room
to
Mr.
----'s?"
she
was
immediately
asked.
And
breathless,
we
all
heard
her
answer
deliberately
and
quite
audibly
that
the
fugitive
may
have
gone
out
of
her
window,
up
the
garden
and
in
by
Mr.
----'s
window,
or
it
may
have
gone
out
of
her
door,
up
the
corridor
and
in
by
his
door.
I
wanted
to
know
why
it
should
have
entered
Mr.
----'s
room
as
he
is
not
a
dipterist
but
a
microlepidopterist.
They
looked
at
me
sternly
and
we
slowly
dispersed.
This
morning,
the
Dr.
came
to
me
with
a
newspaper
cutting
in
his
hand,
saying,
"The
Times
is
behindhand."
He
handed
me
the
slip.
It
was
a
clipping
from
to-day's
Times
about
a
sackful
of
flies
which
had
been
taken
from
Wandsworth
Clock
Tower
in
a
state
of
hibernation.
"Behindhand?"
I
asked
timidly,
for
I
felt
that
all
the
story
was
not
in
front
of
me.
"Why,
yes.
Don't
you
know?"
I
knew
nothing,
but
was
prepared
for
anything.
"The
Star,
two
days
ago,"
he
informed
me,
"had
a
paragraph
about
this--headed
'Tempus
fugit'
"--this
last
in
a
resentful
tone
as
tho'
the
frivolous
reporter
were
attempting
to
discredit
our
mystery.
There
was
a
long
pause.
Neither
of
us
spoke.
Then
he
slowly
said:
"I
wonder
why
The
Times
is
so
behindhand.
This
is
two
days
late."
May
5.
Hulloa,
old
friend:
how
are
you?
I
mean
my
Diary.
I
haven't
written
to
you
for
ever
so
long,
and
my
silence
as
usual
indicates
happiness.
I
have
been
passing
thro'
an
unbroken
succession
of
calm
happy
days,
walking
in
the
woods
with
my
darling,
or
doing
a
little
gentle
gardening
on
coming
home
in
the
evening--and
the
War
has
been
centuries
away.
Later
on
towards
bedtime,
E----
reads
Richard
Jefferies,
I
play
Patience
and
Mrs.
----
makes
garments
for
Priscilla.
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