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might be hurled on their fortieth birthday. The idea was
received with acclamation. Carlyle and Ruskin, Tennyson,
Browning, G. F. Watts, E. B. Jones, Dickens, Thackeray, they
were hurried into the flames; Mr. Gladstone, John Bright,
and Cobden; there was a moment’s discussion about George
Meredith, but Matthew Arnold and Emerson were given up
cheerfully. At last came Walter Pater.
‘Not Walter Pater,’ murmured Philip.
Lawson stared at him for a moment with his green eyes
and then nodded.
‘You’re quite right, Walter Pater is the only justification
for Mona Lisa. D’you know Cronshaw? He used to know
Pater.’
‘Who’s Cronshaw?’ asked Philip.
‘Cronshaw’s a poet. He lives here. Let’s go to the Lilas.’
La Closerie des Lilas was a cafe to which they often went
in the evening after dinner, and here Cronshaw was invari-
ably to be found between the hours of nine at night and two
in the morning. But Flanagan had had enough of intellec-
tual conversation for one evening, and when Lawson made
his suggestion, turned to Philip.
‘Oh gee, let’s go where there are girls,’ he said. ‘Come to
the Gaite Montparnasse, and we’ll get ginny.’
‘I’d rather go and see Cronshaw and keep sober,’ laughed
Philip.

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