The Diary of a Nobody by George Grossmith

Author:George Grossmith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780141905693
Published: 2011-10-18T06:46:16+00:00

We have a dose of Irving

imitations. Make the acquaintance

of Mr Padge. Don’t care for him.

Mr Burwin-Fosselton becomes

a nuisance.

Chapter XI

NOVEMBER 20. Have seen nothing of Lupin the whole day. Bought a cheap address-book. I spent the evening copying in the names and addresses of my friends and acquaintances. Left out the Mutlars of course.

NOVEMBER 21. Lupin turned up for a few minutes in the evening. He asked for a drop of brandy with a sort of careless look, which to my mind was theatrical and quite ineffective. I said: ‘My boy, I have none, and I don’t think I should give it you if I had.’ Lupin said: ‘I’ll go where I can get some,’ and walked out of the house. Carrie took the boy’s part, and the rest of the evening was spent in a disagreeable discussion, in which the words ‘Daisy’ and ‘Mutlar’ must have occurred a thousand times.

NOVEMBER 22. Gowing and Cummings dropped in during the evening. Lupin also came in, bringing his friend, Mr Burwin-Fosselton – one of the ‘Holloway Comedians’ – who was at our party the other night, and who cracked our little round table. Happy to say Daisy Mutlar was never referred to. The conversation was almost entirely monopolized by the young fellow Fosselton, who not only looked rather like Mr Irving but seemed to imagine that he was the celebrated actor. I must say he gave some capital imitations of him. As he showed no signs of moving at supper time, I said: ‘If you like to stay Mr Fosselton, for our usual crust – pray do.’ He replied: ‘Oh! thanks; but please call me Burwin-Fosselton. It is a double name. There are lots of Fosseltons, but please call me Burwin-Fosselton.’

He began doing the Irving business all through supper.1 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 headache.

When he went, he said, to our surprise: ‘I will come tomorrow

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