The Journal of a Disappointed Man

No answer. I continued to stand by my chair. "How pleased Swift, Johnson, Lamb, and other anti-Caledonians would be...." "Hope you don't mind my occupying your chair a little longer," the Scotchman said, "but this is a larva, has curious maxillæ...." and his voice faded away in abstraction. "Oh! no--go on," I said, "I fear it is a grievous absence of hospitality on my part in not providing you with a glass of whiskey. Can I offer you water, Sir?" No answer. Another enthusiast ushered himself in, was greeted with delight by the first and invited to sit down. I pulled out a chair for him and said: "Shave, sir, or hair cut?" "If you follow along to the top of the galea," No. I droned on imperturbably, "you will...." etc. I got tired of standing and talking to an empty house but at last they got up, apologising and making for the door. I entreated them not to mention the matter--my fee should be nominal--I did it out of sheer love, etc. They thanked me again and would have said more but I added blandly: "You know your way out?" They assured me they did (having worked in the place for 30 years and more)--I thanked God--and sat down to my table once more. (These reports of conversations are rather fatuous: yet they give an idea of the sort of person I have to deal with, and also the sort of person I am among this sort of person.)