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speaker a romantic attitude and cast a slur upon the posi-
tion which Philip instinctively felt had more to say for it
than he could think of at the moment.
But this evening Philip, undecided, wanted to talk about
himself. Fortunately it was late already and Cronshaw’s pile
of saucers on the table, each indicating a drink, suggested
that he was prepared to take an independent view of things
in general.
‘I wonder if you’d give me some advice,’ said Philip sud-
denly.
‘You won’t take it, will you?’
Philip shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
‘I don’t believe I shall ever do much good as a painter.
I don’t see any use in being second-rate. I’m thinking of
chucking it.’
‘Why shouldn’t you?’
Philip hesitated for an instant.
‘I suppose I like the life.’
A change came over Cronshaw’s placid, round face. The
corners of the mouth were suddenly depressed, the eyes
sunk dully in their orbits; he seemed to become strangely
bowed and old.
‘This?’ he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat.
His voice really trembled a little.
‘If you can get out of it, do while there’s time.’
Philip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of
emotion always made him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes.
He knew that he was looking upon the tragedy of failure.
There was silence. Philip thought that Cronshaw was look-