A. So it would appear to the casual observer.
MY INFLUENZA.
Monday.—This is the day I promised to go with my aunt to the first meeting of that new Society for the Propagation of Female Suffrage amongst the Turks. Wish I'd never promised. Don't see how I can escape. Why, yes, good idea—the influenza! I'll have it. Almost fancy I have a slight pain in my back, which would certainly be a symptom. I will decide that I have a pain in my back. Send note, saying, in uncertain weather caution is necessary; fear that I'm attacked by the prevailing epidemic; wish every success to the good cause, and so forth. Then, relieved in my mind, down to the club, and forget all about the old lady.
Tuesday.—Shall have a melancholy time this evening. Mrs. Pogson's At Home, with recitations. Oh lord! Daren't offend old Pogson by refusing. It would not be so bad if there were not the five Miss Pogsons. Of all the awful, middle-aged young women——! Ha, by Jove! Never thought of it. Of course. The influenza. Telegraph at once. Deeply regret, illness, and so forth. I really have a slight pain in my back. Wonder what it is. Put on my thickest coat when I go out.
Wednesday.—Awful joke this influenza. Shall escape old Blodgett's dinner to-night. Should have been bored to death. Now sixpenny telegram settles it all. The only thing is I really have a pain in my back. Reminds me of boy crying "Wolf" in the fable. Shall stay in this evening, and keep warm by the fire.
Thursday.—Do not feel much worse, but pain still there. Shall not venture out. Can therefore, quite truthfully, excuse my absence from Boreham's matinée. Good enough fellow, Boreham, but can't write a tragedy at all. So shall escape the awful infliction of his mixed imitation of Ibsen and Shelley. The worst of it is that, with this beastly pain in my back, I begin to think my influenza is no sham at all. Stop in all day in warm room. In the evening feel headache, as well as pain in back. Fear the worst.
Friday.—No doubt about it. In bed. Must see the doctor. Letter from Gadsby. Wants me to go to the theatre to-night. Jolly party. Supper after at his house. Little dance to finish with. Jolly, lively fellow Gadsby. Knows lots of pretty actresses, and has all sorts of larks. Would have been good fun. And here am I in bed! Hang the influenza! But cannot risk anything. Get Jones fetched—Jones, M.D., my old chum. Tell him how I feel, and say I have the influenza. "Bosh!" says he, "you've been sitting in a draught somewhere, and got a little lumbago in your back. It's nothing. And you've stuck in a hot room till you've got a headache for want of fresh air. Get up and go out as soon as you can." Feel better already. Show him Gadsby's letter. "The very thing," says he; "I'm going. We'll go together. With that influenza of yours, you oughtn't to go out without someone to watch the case."