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of the cafe, with his coat on and the collar turned up. He
wore his hat pressed well down on his forehead so that he
should avoid cold air. He was a big man, stout but not obese,
with a round face, a small moustache, and little, rather stu-
pid eyes. His head did not seem quite big enough for his
body. It looked like a pea uneasily poised on an egg. He was
playing dominoes with a Frenchman, and greeted the new-
comers with a quiet smile; he did not speak, but as if to make
room for them pushed away the little pile of saucers on the
table which indicated the number of drinks he had already
consumed. 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 Cron-
shaw, 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.
‘Just out from England? See any cricket?’
Philip was a little confused at the unexpected question.
‘Cronshaw knows the averages of every first-class crick-
eter for the last twenty years,’ said Lawson, smiling.
The Frenchman left them for friends at another table,
and Cronshaw, with the lazy enunciation which was one of
his peculiarities, began to discourse on the relative merits
of Kent and Lancashire. He told them of the last test match
he had seen and described the course of the game wicket
by wicket.

0 Of Human Bondage