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The waiter was a jovial fellow and knew Cronshaw inti-
mately. Cronshaw gazed at him.
‘If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a
gentleman that nobody but I has been drinking my whiskey,
I’ll accept your statement.’
This remark, translated literally into the crudest French,
sounded very funny, and the lady at the comptoir could not
help laughing.
‘Il est impayable,’ she murmured.
Cronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her;
she was stout, matronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly
kissed his hand to her. She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Fear not, madam,’ he said heavily. ‘I have passed the age
when I am tempted by forty-five and gratitude.’
He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and
slowly drank it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand.
‘He talked very well.’
Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw’s remark was
an answer to the question about Mallarme. Cronshaw often
went to the gatherings on Tuesday evenings when the poet
received men of letters and painters, and discoursed with
subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him.
Cronshaw had evidently been there lately.
‘He talked very well, but he talked nonsense. He talked
about art as though it were the most important thing in the
world.’
‘If it isn’t, what are we here for?’ asked Philip.
‘What you’re here for I don’t know. It is no business of

0 Of Human Bondage