I broached the subject at the breakfast-table to-day.  I said: “I was in hopes that, if anything ever happened to me, the diary would be an endless source of pleasure to you both; to say nothing of the chance of the remuneration which may accrue from its being published.”

Both Carrie and Lupin burst out laughing.  Carrie was sorry for this, I could see, for she said: “I did not mean to be rude, dear Charlie; but truly I do not think your diary would sufficiently interest the public to be taken up by a publisher.”

I replied: “I am sure it would prove quite as interesting as some of the ridiculous reminiscences that have been published lately.  Besides, it’s the diary that makes the man.  Where would Evelyn and Pepys have been if it had not been for their diaries?”

Carrie said I was quite a philosopher; but Lupin, in a jeering tone, said: “If it had been written on larger paper, Guv., we might get a fair price from a butterman for it.”

As I am in the prospective vein, I vow the end of this year will see the end of my diary.

She replied, to my surprise: “I really wasn’t listening, dear.  I was obliged to leave to give instructions to the laundress.  In consequence of some stuff she puts in the water, two more of Lupin’s coloured shirts have run and he says he won’t wear them.”

I said: “Everything is Lupin.  It’s all Lupin, Lupin, Lupin.  There was not a single button on my shirt yesterday, but I made no complaint.”

Carrie simply replied: “You should do as all other men do, and wear studs.  In fact, I never saw anyone but you wear buttons on the shirt-fronts.”

I said: “I certainly wore none yesterday, for there were none on.”

Another thought that strikes me is that Gowing seldom calls in the evening, and Cummings never does.  I fear they don’t get on well with Lupin.

I had to run after it, and had the greatest difficulty in recovering it.  When I had succeeded in doing so, I found Mrs. Fernlosse had walked on with some swell friends, and I felt I could not well approach her now, especially as my hat was smothered with mud.  I cannot say how disappointed I felt.

In the evening (Sunday evening of all others) I found an impertinent note from Mr. Burwin-Fosselton, which ran as follows:

On returning home at the usual hour on Saturday afternoon I met near the Archway Daisy Mutlar.  My heart gave a leap.  I bowed rather stiffly, but she affected not to have seen me.  Very much annoyed in the evening by the laundress sending home an odd sock.  Sarah said she sent two pairs, and the laundress declared only a pair and a half were sent.  I spoke to Carrie about it, but she rather testily replied: “I am tired of speaking to her; you had better go and speak to her yourself.  She is outside.”  I did so, but the laundress declared that only an odd sock was sent.

Gowing passed into the passage at this time and was rude enough to listen to the conversation, and interrupting, said: “Don’t waste the odd sock, old man; do an act of charity and give it to some poor mar with only one leg.”  The laundress giggled like an idiot.  I was disgusted and walked upstairs for the purpose of pinning down my collar, as the button had come off the back of my shirt.

When I returned to the parlour, Gowing was retailing his idiotic joke about the odd sock, and Carrie was roaring with laughter.  I suppose I am losing my sense of humour.  I spoke my mind pretty freely about Padge.  Gowing said he had met him only once before that evening.  He had been introduced by a friend, and as he (Padge) had “stood” a good dinner, Gowing wished to show him some little return.  Upon my word, Gowing’s coolness surpasses all belief.  Lupin came in before I could reply, and Gowing unfortunately inquired after Daisy Mutlar.  Lupin shouted: “Mind your own business, sir!” and bounced out of the room, slamming the door.  The remainder of the night was Daisy Mutlar—Daisy Mutlar—Daisy Mutlar.  Oh dear!

Dear old Cummings came in the evening; but Gowing sent round a little note saying he hoped I would excuse his not turning up, which rather amused me.  He added that his neck was still painful.  Of course, Burwin-Fosselton came, but Lupin never turned up, and imagine my utter disgust when that man Padge actually came again, and not even accompanied by Gowing.  I was exasperated, and said: “Mr. Padge, this is a surprise.”  Dear Carrie, fearing unpleasantness, said: “Oh! I suppose Mr. Padge has only come to see the other Irving make-up.”  Mr. Padge said: “That’s right,” and took the best chair again, from which he never moved the whole evening.

My only consolation is, he takes no supper, so he is not an expensive guest, but I shall speak to Gowing about the matter.  The Irving imitations and conversations occupied the whole evening, till I was sick of it.  Once we had a rather heated discussion, which was commenced by Cummings saying that it appeared to him that Mr. Burwin-Fosselton was not only like Mr. Irving, but was in his judgment every way as good or even better.  I ventured to remark that after all it was but an imitation of an original.

Cummings said surely some imitations were better than the originals.  I made what I considered a very clever remark: “Without an original there can be no imitation.”  Mr. Burwin-Fosselton said quite impertinently: “Don’t discuss me in my presence, if you please; and, Mr. Pooter, I should advise you to talk about what you understand;” to which that cad Padge replied: “That’s right.”  Dear Carrie saved the whole thing by suddenly saying: “I’ll be Ellen Terry.”  Dear Carrie’s imitation wasn’t a bit liked, but she was so spontaneous and so funny that the disagreeable discussion passed off.  When they left, I very pointedly said to Mr. Burwin-Fosselton and Mr. Padge that we should be engaged to-morrow evening.

I must say we were all astounded.  I never saw such a resemblance.  It was astonishing.  The only person who did not appear interested was the man Padge, who had got the best arm-chair, and was puffing away at a foul pipe into the fireplace.  After some little time I said; “Why do actors always wear their hair so long?”  Carrie in a moment said, “Mr. Hare doesn’t wear long hair.”  How we laughed except Mr. Fosselton, who said, in a rather patronising kind of way, “The joke, Mrs. Pooter, is extremely appropriate, if not altogether new.”  Thinking this rather a snub, I said: “Mr. Fosselton, I fancy—”  He interrupted me by saying: “Mr. Burwin-Fosselton, if you please,” which made me quite forget what I was going to say to him.  During the supper Mr. Burwin-Fosselton again monopolised the conversation with his Irving talk, and both Carrie and I came to the conclusion one can have even too much imitation of Irving.  After supper, Mr. Burwin-Fosselton got a little too boisterous over his Irving imitation, and suddenly seizing Gowing by the collar of his coat, dug his thumb-nail, accidentally of course, into Gowing’s neck and took a piece of flesh out.  Gowing was rightly annoyed, but that man Padge, who having declined our modest supper in order that he should not lose his comfortable chair, burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter at the little misadventure.  I was so annoyed at the conduct of Padge, I said: “I suppose you would have laughed if he had poked Mr. Gowing’s eye out?” to which Padge replied: “That’s right,” and laughed more than ever.  I think perhaps the greatest surprise was when we broke up, for Mr. Burwin-Fosselton said: “Good-night, Mr. Pooter.  I’m glad you like the imitation, I’ll bring the other make-up to-morrow night.”

He began doing the Irving business all through supper.  He sank so low down in his chair that his chin was almost on a level with the table, and twice he kicked Carrie under the table, upset his wine, and flashed a knife uncomfortably near Gowing’s face.  After supper he kept stretching out his legs on the fender, indulging in scraps of quotations from plays which were Greek to me, and more than once knocked over the fire-irons, making a hideous row—poor Carrie already having a bad head-ache.

When he went, he said, to our surprise: “I will come to-morrow and bring my Irving make-up.”  Gowing and Cummings said they would like to see it and would come too.  I could not help thinking they might as well give a party at my house while they are about it.  However, as Carrie sensibly said: “Do anything, dear, to make Lupin forget the Daisy Mutlar business.”

Carrie and I talked the matter over during the evening, and agreed that it did not always follow that an early engagement meant an unhappy marriage.  Dear Carrie reminded me that we married early, and, with the exception of a few trivial misunderstandings, we had never had a really serious word.  I could not help thinking (as I told her) that half the pleasures of life were derived from the little struggles and small privations that one had to endure at the beginning of one’s married life.  Such struggles were generally occasioned by want of means, and often helped to make loving couples stand together all the firmer.

Carrie said I had expressed myself wonderfully well, and that I was quite a philosopher.

We are all vain at times, and I must confess I felt flattered by Carrie’s little compliment.  I don’t pretend to be able to express myself in fine language, but I feel I have the power of expressing my thoughts with simplicity and lucidness.  About nine o’clock, to our surprise.  Lupin entered, with a wild, reckless look, and in a hollow voice, which I must say seemed rather theatrical, said: “Have you any brandy?”  I said: “No; but here is some whisky.”  Lupin drank off nearly a wineglassful without water, to my horror.

We all three sat reading in silence till ten, when Carrie and I rose to go to bed.  Carrie said to Lupin: “I hope Daisy is well?”

Lupin, with a forced careless air that he must have picked up from the “Holloway Comedians,” replied: “Oh, Daisy?  You mean Miss Mutlar.  I don’t know whether she is well or not, but please never to mention her name again in my presence.”