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148
The Diary of a Nobody
·
George Grossmith Weedon Grossmith
89
An
awkward
silence
followed.
Gowing
said:
“Never
mind,
Cummings,
you
and
the
missis
come
round
to
my
place
to-morrow,
and
it
will
cheer
you
up
a
bit;
for
we’ll
open
a
bottle
of
wine.”
JANUARY
26.—
An
extraordinary
thing
happened.
Carrie
and
I
went
round
to
Gowing’s,
as
arranged,
at
half-past
seven.
We
knocked
and
rang
several
times
without
getting
an
answer.
At
last
the
latch
was
drawn
and
the
door
opened
a
little
way,
the
chain
still
being
up.
A
man
in
shirt-sleeves
put
his
head
through
and
said:
“Who
is
it?
What
do
you
want?”
I
said:
“Mr.
Gowing,
he
is
expecting
us.”
The
man
said
(as
well
as
I
could
hear,
owing
to
the
yapping
of
a
little
dog):
“I
don’t
think
he
is.
Mr.
Gowing
is
not
at
home.”
I
said:
“He
will
be
in
directly.”
With
that
observation
he
slammed
the
door,
leaving
Carrie
and
me
standing
on
the
steps
with
a
cutting
wind
blowing
round
the
corner.
Carrie
advised
me
to
knock
again.
I
did
so,
and
then
discovered
for
the
first
time
that
the
knocker
had
been
newly
painted,
and
the
paint
had
come
off
on
my
gloves—
which
were,
in
consequence,
completely
spoiled.
I
knocked
at
the
door
with
my
stick
two
or
three
times.
The
man
opened
the
door,
taking
the
chain
off
this
time,
and
began
abusing
me.
He
said:
“What
do
you
mean
by
scratching
the
paint
with
your
stick
like
that,
spoiling
the
varnish?
You
ought
to
be
ashamed
of
yourself.”
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Purify
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