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148
The Diary of a Nobody
·
George Grossmith Weedon Grossmith
88
JANUARY
25.—
We
had
just
finished
our
tea,
when
who
should
come
in
but
Cummings,
who
has
not
been
here
for
over
three
weeks.
I
noticed
that
he
looked
anything
but
well,
so
I
said:
“Well,
Cummings,
how
are
you?
You
look
a
little
blue.”
He
replied:
“Yes!
and
I
feel
blue
too.”
I
said:
“Why,
what’s
the
matter?”
He
said:
“Oh,
nothing,
except
that
I
have
been
on
my
back
for
a
couple
of
weeks,
that’s
all.
At
one
time
my
doctor
nearly
gave
me
up,
yet
not
a
soul
has
come
near
me.
No
one
has
even
taken
the
trouble
to
inquire
whether
I
was
alive
or
dead.”
I
said:
“This
is
the
first
I
have
heard
of
it.
I
have
passed
your
house
several
nights,
and
presumed
you
had
company,
as
the
rooms
were
so
brilliantly
lighted.”
Cummings
replied:
“No!
The
only
company
I
have
had
was
my
wife,
the
doctor,
and
the
landlady—
the
last-named
having
turned
out
a
perfect
trump.
I
wonder
you
did
not
see
it
in
the
paper.
I
know
it
was
mentioned
in
the
Bicycle
News.”
I
thought
to
cheer
him
up,
and
said:
“Well,
you
are
all
right
now?”
He
replied:
“That’s
not
the
question.
The
question
is
whether
an
illness
does
not
enable
you
to
discover
who
are
your
true
friends.”
I
said
such
an
observation
was
unworthy
of
him.
To
make
matters
worse,
in
came
Gowing,
who
gave
Cummings
a
violent
slap
on
the
back,
and
said:
“Hulloh!
Have
you
seen
a
ghost?
You
look
scared
to
death,
like
Irving
in
Macbeth.”
I
said:
“Gently,
Gowing,
the
poor
fellow
has
been
very
ill.”
Gowing
roared
with
laughter
and
said:
“Yes,
and
you
look
it,
too.”
Cummings
quietly
said:
“Yes,
and
I
feel
it
too—
not
that
I
suppose
you
care.”
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