“Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that.  At that rate Monsieur wastes his time in making marks.”

The waiter was a jovial fellow and knew Cronshaw intimately.  Cronshaw gazed at him.

“If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a gentleman that nobody but I has been drinking my whiskey, I’ll accept your statement.”

This remark, translated literally into the crudest French, sounded very funny, and the lady at the comptoir could not help laughing.

“Il est impayable,” she murmured.

Cronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her; she was stout, matronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly kissed his hand to her.  She shrugged her shoulders.

“Fear not, madam,” he said heavily.  “I have passed the age when I am tempted by forty-five and gratitude.”

He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“He talked very well.”

Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw’s remark was an answer to the question about Mallarme.  Cronshaw often went to the gatherings on Tuesday evenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, and discoursed with subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him.  Cronshaw had evidently been there lately.

“He talked very well, but he talked nonsense.  He talked about art as though it were the most important thing in the world.”

“If it isn’t, what are we here for?” asked Philip.

“What you’re here for I don’t know.  It is no business of mine.  But art is a luxury.  Men attach importance only to self-preservation and the propagation of their species.  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.

Then he said:  “I wrote a poem yesterday.”

Without being asked he began to recite it, very slowly, marking the rhythm with an extended forefinger.  It was possibly a very fine poem, but at that moment a young woman came in.  She had scarlet lips, and it was plain that the vivid colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; she had blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted both eyelids a bold blue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the eyes.  It was fantastic and amusing.  Her dark hair was done over her ears in the fashion made popular by Mlle. Cleo de Merode.  Philip’s eyes wandered to her, and Cronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses, smiled upon him indulgently.

“You were not listening,” he said.

“Oh yes, I was.”

“I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of the statement I just made.  What is art beside love?  I respect and applaud your indifference to fine poetry when you can contemplate the meretricious charms of this young person.”