The Journal of a Disappointed Man

On the way, we were both bitterly disappointed at a dramatic meeting between a man and woman of the artizan class which instead of beginning with a stormy, "Robert, where's the rent, may I ask?" fizzled out into, "Hullo, Charlie, why you are a stranger." At tea in the A.B.C. shop, we had a violent discussion on Socialism, and on the station platform, going home, I said that before marriage I intended saving up against the possibility of divorce--a domestic divorce fund. "Very dreadful," said R---- with mock gravity, "to hear a recently affianced young man talk like that." ... What should I do then? Marry? I suppose so. Shadows of the prison-house. At first I said I ought not to marry for two years. Then when I am wildly excited with her I say "next week." We could. There are no arrangements to be made. All her furniture--flat, etc. But I feel we ought to wait until the War is over. At dinner-time to-night I was feverish to do three things at once: write out my day's Journal, eat my food, and read the Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff. Did all three--but unfortunately not at once, so that when I was occupied with one I would surreptitiously cast a glance sideways at the other--and repined. After dinner, paid a visit to the ---- and found Mrs. ---- playing Patience. I told her that 12,000 lives had been lost in the great Italian earthquake. Still going on dealing out the cards, she said in her gentle voice that that was dreadful and still absorbed in her cards inquired if earthquakes had aught to do with the weather.