He quoted the romantic Rolla,

“Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux.”

He liked new faces, and he took a fancy to Philip, who seemed to achieve the difficult feat of talking just enough to suggest conversation and not too much to prevent monologue.  Philip was captivated.  He did not realise that little that Cronshaw said was new.  His personality in conversation had a curious power.  He had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a manner of putting things which was irresistible to youth.  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.  It had never been published in a volume, but most of it had appeared in periodicals; and after a good deal of persuasion Cronshaw brought down a bundle of pages torn out of The Yellow Book, The Saturday Review, and other journals, on each of which was a poem.  Philip was taken aback to find that most of them reminded him either of Henley or of Swinburne.  It needed the splendour of Cronshaw’s delivery to make them personal.  He expressed his disappointment to Lawson, who carelessly repeated his words; and next time Philip went to the Closerie des Lilas the poet turned to him with his sleek smile: 

“I hear you don’t think much of my verses.”

Philip was embarrassed.

“I don’t know about that,” he answered.  “I enjoyed reading them very much.”

“Do not attempt to spare my feelings,” returned Cronshaw, with a wave of his fat hand.  “I do not attach any exaggerated importance to my poetical works.  Life is there to be lived rather than to be written about.  My aim is to search out the manifold experience that it offers, wringing from each moment what of emotion it presents.  I look upon my writing as a graceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds pleasure to existence.  And as for posterity—­damn posterity.”

Philip smiled, for it leaped to one’s eyes that the artist in life had produced no more than a wretched daub.  Cronshaw looked at him meditatively and filled his glass.  He sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes.

“You are amused because I talk in this fashion and you know that I am poor and live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who deceives me with hair-dressers and garcons de cafe; I translate wretched books for the British public, and write articles upon contemptible pictures which deserve not even to be abused.  But pray tell me what is the meaning of life?”

“I say, that’s rather a difficult question.  Won’t you give the answer yourself?”

“No, because it’s worthless unless you yourself discover it.  But what do you suppose you are in the world for?”

Philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment before replying.