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Updated: May 15, 2025
Philip's glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and Cronshaw, seeing it, gave him the quizzical look with which he reproved the admonitions of common sense. "You have diagnosed my case, and you think it's very wrong of me to drink absinthe." "You've evidently got cirrhosis of the liver," said Philip. "Evidently."
"Just out from England? See any cricket?" Philip was a little confused at the unexpected question. "Cronshaw knows the averages of every first-class cricketer for the last twenty years," said Lawson, smiling.
Cronshaw turned to Philip. "Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There you will see Persian carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy of which delights and amazes the eye. In them you will see the mystery and the sensual beauty of the East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of Omar; but presently you will see more.
It is only when these instincts are satisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainment which is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets." Cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pondered for twenty years the problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether he loved conversation because it made him thirsty.
It was the same with Cronshaw: it was quite unimportant that he had lived; he was dead and forgotten, his book of poems sold in remainder by second-hand booksellers; his life seemed to have served nothing except to give a pushing journalist occasion to write an article in a review. And Philip cried out in his soul: "What is the use of it?" The effort was so incommensurate with the result.
Philip's rule of life, to follow one's instincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had not acted very well there: it was because Cronshaw had done this that he had made such a lamentable failure of existence. It seemed that the instincts could not be trusted.
Miss Chalice rose and opened. She took the leg of mutton and held it high above her, as though it were the head of John the Baptist on a platter; and, the cigarette still in her mouth, advanced with solemn, hieratic steps. "Hail, daughter of Herodias," cried Cronshaw. The mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what a hearty appetite the pale-faced lady had.
She seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but commonplace things to say to one another. "So you've got here all right." "I've never lived in this part of London before." Philip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died.
Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in. "Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the back. I don't know if he's in. If you want him you had better go up and see." The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark.
"And the nuisance is," added Clutton, "that it takes him a devil of a time to get drunk." When they arrived at the cafe Lawson told Philip that they would have to go in. There was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but Cronshaw had a morbid fear of draughts and even in the warmest weather sat inside. "He knows everyone worth knowing," Lawson explained.
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