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148
The Diary of a Nobody
·
George Grossmith Weedon Grossmith
68
I
had
to
run
after
it,
and
had
the
greatest
difficulty
in
recovering
it.
When
I
had
succeeded
in
doing
so,
I
found
Mrs.
Fernlosse
had
walked
on
with
some
swell
friends,
and
I
felt
I
could
not
well
approach
her
now,
especially
as
my
hat
was
smothered
with
mud.
I
cannot
say
how
disappointed
I
felt.
In
the
evening
(Sunday
evening
of
all
others)
I
found
an
impertinent
note
from
Mr.
Burwin-Fosselton,
which
ran
as
follows:
“DEAR
MR.
POOTER,—
Although
your
junior
by
perhaps
some
twenty
or
thirty
years—
which
is
sufficient
reason
that
you
ought
to
have
a
longer
record
of
the
things
and
ways
in
this
miniature
of
a
planet—
I
feel
it
is
just
within
the
bounds
of
possibility
that
the
wheels
of
your
life
don’t
travel
so
quickly
round
as
those
of
the
humble
writer
of
these
lines.
The
dandy
horse
of
past
days
has
been
known
to
overtake
the
slow
coach.
“Do
I
make
myself
understood?
“Very
well,
then!
Permit
me,
Mr.
Pooter,
to
advise
you
to
accept
the
verb.
sap.
Acknowledge
your
defeat,
and
take
your
whipping
gracefully;
for
remember
you
threw
down
the
glove,
and
I
cannot
claim
to
be
either
mentally
or
physically
a
coward!
“Revenons
à
nos
moutons.
“Our
lives
run
in
different
grooves.
I
live
for
MY
ART—
THE
STAGE.
Your
life
is
devoted
to
commercial
pursuits—
‘A
life
among
Ledgers.’
My
books
are
of
different
metal.
Your
life
in
the
City
is
honourable,
I
admit.
But
how
different!
Cannot
even
you
see
the
ocean
between
us?
A
channel
that
prevents
the
meeting
of
our
brains
in
harmonious
accord.
Ah!
But
chaçun
à
son
goût.
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