The Journal of a Disappointed Man

"How would it get from your room to Mr. ----'s?" she was immediately asked. And breathless, we all heard her answer deliberately and quite audibly that the fugitive may have gone out of her window, up the garden and in by Mr. ----'s window, or it may have gone out of her door, up the corridor and in by his door. I wanted to know why it should have entered Mr. ----'s room as he is not a dipterist but a microlepidopterist. They looked at me sternly and we slowly dispersed. This morning, the Dr. came to me with a newspaper cutting in his hand, saying, "The Times is behindhand." He handed me the slip. It was a clipping from to-day's Times about a sackful of flies which had been taken from Wandsworth Clock Tower in a state of hibernation. "Behindhand?" I asked timidly, for I felt that all the story was not in front of me. "Why, yes. Don't you know?" I knew nothing, but was prepared for anything. "The Star, two days ago," he informed me, "had a paragraph about this--headed 'Tempus fugit' "--this last in a resentful tone as tho' the frivolous reporter were attempting to discredit our mystery. There was a long pause. Neither of us spoke. Then he slowly said: "I wonder why The Times is so behindhand. This is two days late." May 5. Hulloa, old friend: how are you? I mean my Diary. I haven't written to you for ever so long, and my silence as usual indicates happiness. I have been passing thro' an unbroken succession of calm happy days, walking in the woods with my darling, or doing a little gentle gardening on coming home in the evening--and the War has been centuries away. Later on towards bedtime, E---- reads Richard Jefferies, I play Patience and Mrs. ---- makes garments for Priscilla.