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he produced a sandalwood box.
‘Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms,’ quoth
Cronshaw. ‘For I would point a moral and adorn a tale.’
The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vul-
gar, hideous, and grotesque.
‘Thirty-five francs,’ he said.
‘O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samar-
kand, and those colours were never made in the vats of
Bokhara.’
‘Twenty-five francs,’ smiled the pedlar obsequiously.
‘Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Bir-
mingham the place of my birth.’
‘Fifteen francs,’ cringed the bearded man.
‘Get thee gone, fellow,’ said Cronshaw. ‘May wild asses de-
file the grave of thy maternal grandmother.’
Imperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine
passed with his wares to another table. Cronshaw turned to
Philip.
‘Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There you
will see Persian carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a
pattern the beautiful intricacy of which delights and amazes
the eye. In them you will see the mystery and the sensual
beauty of the East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of
Omar; but presently you will see more. You were asking just
now what was the meaning of life. Go and look at those Per-
sian carpets, and one of these days the answer will come to
you.’
‘You are cryptic,’ said Philip.
‘I am drunk,’ answered Cronshaw.

Of Human Bondage