November 7.
It is useless to bewail the course of fortune. It cannot be much credit to possess—though we may covet—those precious things, to possess which depends on circumstances outside our control.
November 9.
Dined at the Devonshire Club in St. James's Street, W., with Dr. H——and Mr. ——, the latter showing the grave symptomatic phenomena of a monocle and spats. A dinner of eight courses. Only made one mistake —put my salad on my dish instead of on the side dish. Horribly nervous and reticent. I was apparently expected to give an account of myself and my abilities—and with that end in view, they gave me a few pokes in my cranial ribs. But I am a peculiar animal, and, before unbosoming myself, I would require a happier mise-en-scène than a West End Club, and a more tactful method of approach than ogling by two professors, who seemed to think I was a simple penny-in-the-slot machine. I froze from sheer nervousness and nothing resulted.
November 11.
Returned home and found a letter awaiting me from Dr. A—— offering me £60 a year for a temporary job as assistant at the Plymouth Marine Laboratory.
Left London horribly depressed. They evidently intend to shuffle me off.
Read Geo. Gissing's novel, Born in Exile. Godwin Peak, with his intense pride of individuality, self-torturing capacities, and sentimental languishment, reminds me of myself.
November 20.
A purulent cold in the nose. My heart is weak. Palpitation after the least exertion. But I shall soon be swinging my cudgels in the battle of life, so it won't do to be hypochondriacal.... Let all the powers of the world and the Devil attack me, yet I will win in the end—though the conquest may very well be one which no one but myself will view.