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mine. But art is a luxury. Men attach importance only to
self-preservation and the propagation of their species. It is
only when these instincts are satisfied that they consent to
occupy themselves with the entertainment which is provid-
ed for them by writers, painters, and poets.’
Cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pon-
dered for twenty years the problem whether he loved liquor
because it made him talk or whether he loved conversation
because it made him thirsty.
Then he said: ‘I wrote a poem yesterday.’
Without being asked he began to recite it, very slowly,
marking the rhythm with an extended forefinger. It was pos-
sibly a very fine poem, but at that moment a young woman
came in. She had scarlet lips, and it was plain that the vivid
colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature;
she had blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted
both eyelids a bold blue, which was continued to a triangle
at the corner of the eyes. It was fantastic and amusing. Her
dark hair was done over her ears in the fashion made popu-
lar by Mlle. Cleo de Merode. Philip’s eyes wandered to her,
and Cronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses,
smiled upon him indulgently.
‘You were not listening,’ he said.
‘Oh yes, I was.’
‘I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustra-
tion of the statement I just made. What is art beside love? I
respect and applaud your indifference to fine poetry when
you can contemplate the meretricious charms of this young
person.’

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