March 26
Home with a bad influenza cold. In a deplorable condition. The best I could do was to sit by the fire and read newspapers one by one from the first page to the last till the reading became mechanical. I found myself reading an account of the Lincoln Handicap and a column article on Kleptomania, while advertisements of new books were devoured with relish as delicacies. My mind became a morass of current Divorce Court News, Society Gossip—“if Sir A. goes Romeward, if Miss B. sings true”—and advertisements. I went on reading because I was afraid to be alone with myself.
B⸺ arrived at tea and after saying he felt very “pin-eyed” swallowed a glass of Bols gin—the Gin of Antony Bols—and recovered sufficiently to inform me delightedly that he had just won £50. He told me all the story; meanwhile, I, tired of wiping and blowing my nose, sat in the dirty armchair hunched up with elbows on knees and let it drip on to the dirty carpet. B⸺, of course, noticed nothing, which was fortunate.
Some kinds of damned fool would have been kindly and sympathetic. I must say I like old B⸺. I like him for his simpleness and utter absence of self-consciousness, which make him as charming as a child. Moreover, he often makes me a present of invaluable turf tips. Of course, he is a liar, but his lies are harmless and on his mouth like milk on an infant’s. My own lies are much more dangerous. And when you are ill, to be treated as though you were well is good for hypochondriacs.