The Journal of a Disappointed Man

"What's become of all the gold?" "What's become of Waring?" "What shall I sing when all is sung?" To which several categorical interrogations she ventured no reply, but presently in the usual voice,-- "I have placed an Agrionine in this drawer for security and, now I want it, cannot find it." "Life is like that," I said. "I never can find my Agrionines!" August 1. All Europe is mobilising. August 2. Will England join in? August 12. We all await the result of a battle between two millions of men. The tension makes me feel physically sick. August 21--August 24. In bed with a fever. I never visit the flat now, but her mother kindly came over to see me. September 25. [Living now in rooms alone.] I have--since my return from Cornwall--placed all my journals in a specially made cabinet. R---- came to dinner and after a glass or so of Beaune and a cigarette, I open my "coffin"[2] (it is a long box with a brass handle at each end), and with some show of deliberation select a volume to read to him, drawing it from its division with lavish punctiliousness, and inquiring with an oily voice, "A little of 1912?" as if we were trying wines. R---- grins at the little farce and so encourages me. September 26. Doctor's Consulting Rooms--my life has been spent in them! Medical specialists--Harley Street men--I have seen four and all to no purpose. M---- wrote me the other day,-- "Come along and see me on Tuesday; some day I dare say we shall find something we can patch."