January 24.—­The new chimney-glass came home for the back drawing-room.  Carrie arranged some fans very prettily on the top and on each side.  It is an immense improvement to the room.

January 25.—­We had just finished our tea, when who should come in but Cummings, who has not been here for over three weeks.  I noticed that he looked anything but well, so I said:  “Well, Cummings, how are you?  You look a little blue.”  He replied:  “Yes! and I feel blue too.”  I said:  “Why, what’s the matter?” He said:  “Oh, nothing, except that I have been on my back for a couple of weeks, that’s all.  At one time my doctor nearly gave me up, yet not a soul has come near me.  No one has even taken the trouble to inquire whether I was alive or dead.”

I said:  “This is the first I have heard of it.  I have passed your house several nights, and presumed you had company, as the rooms were so brilliantly lighted.”

Cummings replied:  “No!  The only company I have had was my wife, the doctor, and the landlady—­the last-named having turned out a perfect trump.  I wonder you did not see it in the paper.  I know it was mentioned in the Bicycle News.”

I thought to cheer him up, and said:  “Well, you are all right now?”

He replied:  “That’s not the question.  The question is whether an illness does not enable you to discover who are your true friends.”

I said such an observation was unworthy of him.  To make matters worse, in came Gowing, who gave Cummings a violent slap on the back, and said:  “Hulloh!  Have you seen a ghost?  You look scared to death, like Irving in Macbeth.”  I said:  “Gently, Gowing, the poor fellow has been very ill.”  Gowing roared with laughter and said:  “Yes, and you look it, too.”  Cummings quietly said:  “Yes, and I feel it too—­not that I suppose you care.”

An awkward silence followed.  Gowing said:  “Never mind, Cummings, you and the missis come round to my place to-morrow, and it will cheer you up a bit; for we’ll open a bottle of wine.”

January 26.—­An extraordinary thing happened.  Carrie and I went round to Gowing’s, as arranged, at half-past seven.  We knocked and rang several times without getting an answer.  At last the latch was drawn and the door opened a little way, the chain still being up.  A man in shirt-sleeves put his head through and said:  “Who is it?  What do you want?” I said:  “Mr. Gowing, he is expecting us.”  The man said (as well as I could hear, owing to the yapping of a little dog):  “I don’t think he is.  Mr. Gowing is not at home.”  I said:  “He will be in directly.”

With that observation he slammed the door, leaving Carrie and me standing on the steps with a cutting wind blowing round the corner.

Carrie advised me to knock again.  I did so, and then discovered for the first time that the knocker had been newly painted, and the paint had come off on my gloves—­which were, in consequence, completely spoiled.