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Updated: June 16, 2025
Fortunately it was late already and Cronshaw's pile of saucers on the table, each indicating a drink, suggested that he was prepared to take an independent view of things in general. "I wonder if you'd give me some advice," said Philip suddenly. "You won't take it, will you?" Philip shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "I don't believe I shall ever do much good as a painter.
He was surprised to see that his mouth was open. He touched his shoulder. Philip gave a cry of dismay. He slipped his hand under Cronshaw's shirt and felt his heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard of this being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth. It startled him to be alone with Cronshaw.
He used to know Pater." "Who's Cronshaw?" asked Philip. "Cronshaw's a poet. He lives here. Let's go to the Lilas." La Closerie des Lilas was a cafe to which they often went in the evening after dinner, and here Cronshaw was invariably to be found between the hours of nine at night and two in the morning.
All he said seemed to excite thought, and often on the way home Lawson and Philip would walk to and from one another's hotels, discussing some point which a chance word of Cronshaw had suggested. It was disconcerting to Philip, who had a youthful eagerness for results, that Cronshaw's poetry hardly came up to expectation.
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