his head.  By the way, I ran against Flanagan the other day.  He was showing Mrs. Flanagan round the Quarter.  He has chucked art and is now in popper’s business.  He seems to be rolling.  Mrs. Flanagan is very pretty and I’m trying to work a portrait.  How much would you ask if you were me?  I don’t want to frighten them, and then on the other hand I don’t want to be such an ass as to ask L150 if they’re quite willing to give L300.

Yours ever,
Frederick Lawson.

Philip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the following letter.  It was written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and the flimsy envelope was dirtier than was justified by its passage through the post.

Dear Carey,

Of course I remember you very well.  I have an idea that I had some part in rescuing you from the Slough of Despond in which myself am hopelessly immersed.  I shall be glad to see you.  I am a stranger in a strange city and I am buffeted by the philistines.  It will be pleasant to talk of Paris.  I do not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a magnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of Monsieur Purgon’s profession, but you will find me eating modestly any evening between seven and eight at a restaurant yclept Au Bon Plaisir in Dean Street.

                                          Your sincere
                                                  J. Cronshaw.

Philip went the day he received this letter.  The restaurant, consisting of one small room, was of the poorest class, and Cronshaw seemed to be its only customer.  He was sitting in the corner, well away from draughts, wearing the same shabby great-coat which Philip had never seen him without, with his old bowler on his head.

“I eat here because I can be alone,” he said.  “They are not doing well; the only people who come are a few trollops and one or two waiters out of a job; they are giving up business, and the food is execrable.  But the ruin of their fortunes is my advantage.”

Cronshaw had before him a glass of absinthe.  It was nearly three years since they had met, and Philip was shocked by the change in his appearance.  He had been rather corpulent, but now he had a dried-up, yellow look:  the skin of his neck was loose and winkled; his clothes hung about him as though they had been bought for someone else; and his collar, three or four sizes too large, added to the slatternliness of his appearance.  His hands trembled continually.  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.”

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.