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. I knocked at the door with my stick two or three times. The man opened the door, taking the chain off this time, and began abusing me. He said: “What do you mean by scratching the paint with your stick like that, spoiling the varnish? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” I said: “Pardon me, Mr. Gowing invited—” He interrupted and said: “I don’t care for Mr. Gowing, or any of his friends. This is _my_ door, not Mr. Gowing’s. There are people here besides Mr. Gowing.” The impertinence of this man was nothing. I scarcely noticed it, it was so trivial in comparison with the scandalous conduct of Gowing. At this moment Cummings and his wife arrived. Cummings was very lame and leaning on a stick; but got up the steps and asked what the matter was. The man said: “Mr. Gowing said nothing about expecting anyone. All he said was he had just received an invitation to Croydon, and he should not be back till Monday evening. He took his bag with him.”