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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
271
August
13.
I
hate
elderly
women
who
mention
their
legs.
It
makes
me
shudder.
I
had
two
amusing
conversations
this
morning,
one
with
a
jealous
old
man
of
70
summers
who,
in
spite
of
his
age,
is
jealous--I
can
find
no
other
term--of
me
in
spite
of
mine,
and
the
other
with
a
social
climber.
I
always
tell
the
first
of
any
of
my
little
successes
and
regularly
hand
him
all
my
memoirs
as
they
appear,
to
which
he
as
regularly
protests
that
he
reads
very
little
now.
"Oh!
never
mind,"
I
always
answer
gaily,
"you
take
it
and
read
it
going
down
in
the
train--it
will
amuse
you."
He
submits
but
is
always
silent
next
time
I
see
him--a
little,
admonitory
silence.
Or,
I
mention
I
am
giving
an
address
at
----,
and
he
says
"Oom,"
and
at
once
begins
his
reminiscences,
which
I
have
heard
many
times
before,
and
am
sometimes
tempted
to
correct
him
when,
his
memory
failing,
he
leaves
out
an
essential
portion
of
his
story.
Thus
do
crabbed
age
and
boastful
youth
tantalise
one
another.
To
the
social
climber
I
said
slyly:
"You
seem
to
move
in
a
very
distinguished
entourage
during
your
week
ends."
He
smiled
a
little
self-consciously,
hesitated
a
moment
and
then
said:
"Oh!
I
have
a
few
nice
friends,
you
know."
Now
I
am
sorry,
but
though
I
scrutinised
this
lick-spittle
and
arch
belly-truck
rider
very
closely,
I
am
quite
unable
to
say
whether
that
smile
and
unwonted
diffidence
meant
simple
pleasure
at
the
now
certain
knowledge
that
I
was
duly
impressed,
or
whether
it
was
genuine
confusion
at
the
thought
that
he
had
perhaps
been
overdoing
it.
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