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‘That’s the only thing I miss in Paris,’ he said, as he fin-
ished the bock which the waiter had brought. ‘You don’t get
any cricket.’
Philip was disappointed, and Lawson, pardonably anx-
ious to show off one of the celebrities of the Quarter, grew
impatient. Cronshaw was taking his time to wake up that
evening, though the saucers at his side indicated that he
had at least made an honest attempt to get drunk. Clutton
watched the scene with amusement. He fancied there was
something of affectation in Cronshaw’s minute knowledge
of cricket; he liked to tantalise people by talking to them of
things that obviously bored them; Clutton threw in a ques-
tion.
‘Have you seen Mallarme lately?’
Cronshaw looked at him slowly, as if he were turning the
inquiry over in his mind, and before he answered rapped on
the marble table with one of the saucers.
‘Bring my bottle of whiskey,’ he called out. He turned
again to Philip. ‘I keep my own bottle of whiskey. I can’t af-
ford to pay fifty centimes for every thimbleful.’
The waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw held it up
to the light.
‘They’ve been drinking it. Waiter, who’s been helping
himself to my whiskey?’
‘Mais personne, Monsieur Cronshaw.’
‘I made a mark on it last night, and look at it.’
‘Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking af-
ter that. At that rate Monsieur wastes his time in making
marks.’

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