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Updated: May 15, 2025
He was impressed by Philip's assurance, and accepted meekly Philip's implied suggestion that the painter's arrogant claim to be the sole possible judge of painting has anything but its impertinence to recommend it. A day or two later Philip and Lawson gave their party. Cronshaw, making an exception in their favour, agreed to eat their food; and Miss Chalice offered to come and cook for them.
But they danced furiously as though impelled by some strange power within them, and it seemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment. They were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desire for pleasure which Cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urged them blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of all pleasure.
Will you come and look at 'im and see it's all right?" Philip followed her. Cronshaw was lying on his back, with his eyes closed and his hands folded piously across his chest. "You ought by rights to 'ave a few flowers, sir." "I'll get some tomorrow." She gave the body a glance of satisfaction.
With delicate sarcasm he narrated the last weeks, the patience with which Cronshaw bore the well-meaning clumsiness of the young student who had appointed himself his nurse, and the pitifulness of that divine vagabond in those hopelessly middle-class surroundings. Beauty from ashes, he quoted from Isaiah.
He had middle-class instincts, and it seemed a dreadful thing to him to marry a waitress. A common wife would prevent him from getting a decent practice. Besides, he had only just enough money to last him till he was qualified; he could not keep a wife even if they arranged not to have children. He thought of Cronshaw bound to a vulgar slattern, and he shuddered with dismay.
Philip remembered the handwriting which scrawled over the page with shapeless, haphazard letters. Cronshaw was evidently very ill. "I eat little these days," he said. "I'm very sick in the morning. I'm just having some soup for my dinner, and then I shall have a bit of cheese."
"Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you're distressed. You nice fellow." Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he felt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of the poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile. "I've been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs.
Coffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any untoward consequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort. Ruth Chalice, who could do nothing that was not deliberately artistic, arranged herself in a graceful attitude by Cronshaw and just rested her exquisite head on his shoulder.
He nodded to Philip when he was introduced to him, and went on with the game. Philip's knowledge of the language was small, but he knew enough to tell that Cronshaw, although he had lived in Paris for several years, spoke French execrably. At last he leaned back with a smile of triumph. "Je vous ai battu," he said, with an abominable accent. "Garcong!" He called the waiter and turned to Philip.
He left his address. When Philip went back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading. He did not trouble to inquire what the doctor had said. "Are you satisfied now, dear boy?" he asked. "I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things Tyrell advised?" "Nothing," smiled Cronshaw.
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